I just woke up. It's Sunday. It's 2pm. I'm sitting in my torn jeans (they all are), no shirt (probably a bad idea, I need to do some sit-ups) and the D'ior robe I bought last week at the thrift store for a pajama party I played at. I'm nursing a PBR, or I should say it's nursing me...back from my lingering hangover...and pondering how soon my stomach could manage some cornbeef hash and eggs.
I have another gig tonight. Well, in this case, there's not so much playing on my part as drinking profusely (for free) and jumping up on stage every 15 minutes to poke the crowd with another "Hey, that was Joe, my good friend and an exemplary musician (meaning he drinks as much as me), give him some love!"
Smatterings of applause happen, I announce whomever is next, they clap unenthusiastically again, I saunter back to the bar.
"Bobby, may I have another shot of Jamo, please sir?"
He'll join me with a shot of Jaeger, we'll mourn the Bears until I have to talk to people again. Or someone will come over to me and ask where's the list, and I'll walk them over and hold their hand while they ask how long or how many, and where else I play. Or, I'll end up in a long soliloquy about the sorry state of the music business in Chicago, but still manage to give the guy I'm talking to a bunch of advice about how to get gigs and promote them. It'll end on a positive note. I feel bad when I see the scared or dejected look on the face of some young aspiring songwriter with his head in the clouds, pondering his future Grammy speech.
Tomorrow, I'm off. Well, I have a couple, two, three students, but no shows. I'll probably head over to Quenchers for the open mic and their Monday beer special, The Monday Flight...a collection of 5 top end beers in 6 oz. pours for $15. Normally, I just go for the $2 LaCrosse Lager. My girlfriend Milly will be working at Duke Of Perth, "the best Irish bar in Chicago," (even though it's Scottish) and I hate sitting around at home alone.
The last night off I had was Thursday and since Milly was off too, we decided to take the gift card I had from an upscale gig I did a month ago and grab some dinner. When we got to the place, they were packed. The bimbette at the front desk, noting I'm sure that we were under dressed (my jacket only cost $400), ignored us until she was done talking to the Prada-wearer next to her. After fifteen minutes, she finally asked unenthusiastically "How many." I glanced around, noting no one but the two of us in the immediate vicinity, and wondered if maybe she were inquiring about some quantity of another sort. Milly said "Two."
"It'll be an hour and a half wait."
She turned around to look important elsewhere, we turned around and headed back to the car. Bears game. I forgot even the minions of Oprah who freqent this joint might like a football game. Strange though, I saw not a Bears jersey in the entire place. I guess it's pretense/expense Thursday at Harpo. Casual Friday probably means you can wear a fancy turtle neck under your black sport coat.
Back in the car, we each joked about going to Greektown, hoping the other would drop the half joke for the half serious, even though we couldn't afford it. Didn't work. We both muttered dejectedly that it would cost us too much. So, we started back for our neighborhood, pondering various places along the way that we hadn't been to yet, until settling on Floyd's on Armitage. We'd only been there fifty times, it'd be a nice change of pace. And they'd have the Bears game on.
Just took a break from writing to break down and cook some chow. Cornbeef hash and eggs with tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, and oregano. I put oregano on everything, enough to kill a Greek. I like cooking, but more on that in my next blog, "20 Ramen Recipes For The Economically Challenged."
Our cat Puffin seems to have some input on my writing. He keeps pawing my leg while I type. Maybe he's trying to tell me my syntax is off.
Back to Thursday.
We arrived at Floyd's to find it wasn't too crowded and our friend Kelly was at the bar--translates "comps." We grabbed a table, ordered drinks and two burgers bigger than our heads (which is saying a lot for an Aries and a Leo), and proceeded to watch the Bears completely fuck up another game. Ah, Chicago teams. Very sad.
As we wanted to enjoy an early night, mostly at home, we agreed to finish our beers after the game and head the five blocks to our place. Milly went to use the bathroom. Then I turn around and two friends of ours come strolling in with big grins on their faces having seen me. It's Jimmy and Mick. Mick is a Norwegian from Wisconsin, Jimmy is a Mick from Chicago. Like me. Well, okay, I'm from Wilmette of suburban Chicago. They sit at the bar, next to where we had recently moved, and Mick orders a whole new round, announcing additionally to Kelly the bartender that it's all on him, "Oh, and put Phil and Milly's tab on my card too."
Well then. After another shot, I head out for a smoke. When I arrive back in the bar, Milly is delighting in the surprise visit of our two distinguished acquaintances, not aware yet that it's looking like the party may go later than expected. You see, Mick asked me to "call a friend" for him. He needed more stimulation. Apparently, the Bears game wasn't enough.
After some time, my "friend" shows up, we shake hands outside the bar, Jimmy runs to the liquor store, and we're off to our place for a great meeting of the minds.
Four hours later, Luka Bloom playing from the music room, candles burning on the kitchen table like a seance, the four of us are all talking at once. And boy are we smart! Finally, Mick decides it's time to head home, now that we've solved all the world's problems. Besides, his wife will be upset with him if he doesn't get home early. It's 2am. Jimmy hangs around and talks at us further, starting most sentences with "here's the deal" or "I've been around the world," until Milly decides to crawl into bed and I manage to convince Jimmy that he can find a cab right out front on Fullerton.
Friday, I wake up around noon, jostle Milly and tell her I have to be at a gig in 5 hours. She smiles her cute sleepy smile, mumbles something, and rolls back over. I had been hoping we'd go out and do some promoting, but I decided we could call in. My boss is pretty laid back about that, since he's me.
I still got up, threw on some pants, brushed my teeth and fed the cat while the coffee brewed. Then I went out back to our indoor porch, lit a smoke and finished up the book "Ciao, America." After a bit, I got hungry. But first, I checked on Milly. Rousting her with kisses and "hey sweethearts," she responded in a rough voice that she was sick again. We've been passing a cold back and forth, but it certainly doesn't help staying up until dawn most nights. We do manage to eat well, she exercises regularly (none for me thank you, I jump around on stage), we take vitamins, drink gallons of pomagranate juice, and rest when we feel we need it. Still, when we get something, we keep it around like an intern.
So, I leave her to sleep after bringing some water with fresh lemon juice in it and a couple ibuprofen, then nuke some leftovers. I crack a Tecate, open the lap top, and proceed to go about doing some online promo work while I eat. Then, break time. That is, I need a smoke. I go back to the porch, light up, and pick up Jimmy's brother's book "Blue Collar, Blue Scrubs," about his transition from laborer to surgeon. It's pretty funny, not like my stuff, but like mine, uses a similar style of prose. So, of course, when I see Jimmy at our gig Friday evening, I tell him how great a writer his brother is.
We're playing Cortland's Garage in Bucktown. Our basic job description for this gig is "human jukebox." Lots of obnoxious requests from drunken frat boys, trixies, or this night...laborers.
"Do you know All My Exes Live In Texas?"
"Can you play some Johnny Cash?"
And the inevitable...
"Freebird!"
To which I happily reply with my middle finger and "no charge" through a snide grin.
None the less, we typically enjoy this gig. Rojo, the owner is a nice guy, even though he and I went to rival high schools. He takes care of our drinks and food, pays well, many of our friends from around the neighborhood (Jimmy lives immediately around the corner) drop in and we all have a great time. And are lit by 9pm.
"I think Phil holds the record for how many shots of Jameson anyone has ever done in this bar," announces Rojo with a smile.
"Well," I retort, "at least I'm the best at everything I do."
Once we're done, however, rather than head over to Marie's Rip Tide or some other local establishment to continue the festivities, I head home. One the way, I stop at Polonia Liquors for some beer, smokes, and a can of Hormel Chili. When I arrive home, Milly is reclining on the couch watching Gossip Girl on the laptop. I kiss her, ask her how she's feeling (better), then head to the kitchen to prepare the chili.
I add minced garlic, onions, green chili, scallions, a tomato, chili powder, and of course, oregano. I return to the living room with two bowls, chips and beer, and we watch Vantage Point online before moving to Buffy, season five.Yes, Buffy. I don't wanna hear it, it's our little mindless TV hour(s).
Saturday we actually awoke before most "normal" people's lunch hour, showered, and headed for Evanston so she could apply for bartending jobs at a few more places (one of which she got), while I put posters all over the Northwestern University campus. We met for soup and cider at Celtic Knot. One of the owners strolled by and greeted us in his Irish accent, commenting on how many gigs he sees I'm playing. When he found out Milly is working at Duke Of Perth, he told her to drop by a resume, as they're starting to pick up a bit with the weather getting colder.
"Nobody wants to drenk mault wheskey in the warmer munts."
"Yeah, Patrick, we go for Margaritas during the summer."
"Oh ay!"
Shortly, we jumped in the car and made our way to Lincoln Park, where I dropped her off at work and scrambled home to teach a student.
Then it's off to Galvin's for my Saturday night show with the full band. Lemmy on bass, Bill on keys, Matteo blowing harp, and Mark banging away behind us like Animal from the Muppets. By the end of the second set, Morris at the bar has helped me to several double shots of Powers, and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be phoning it in like Willie Nelson for the third set.
When we're through, we get all of our gear loaded up and Matteo approaches me.
"Hey man, why don't you let me drive you home, you've had a few."
"What about you?"
"I've only smoked a couple joints."
I agree, and twenty minutes later we're rousting Milly from the couch to party a little more, then Matteo goes to jump the Western bus, as Milly pours me into bed.
That was last night, er, this morning. As I said, tonight I host the open mic, then tomorrow, just some teaching, followed by another open mic on Tuesday at Lilly's Bar. Milly is finally feeling better after lingering swine flu or something, thanks in part to lots of healthy food, vitamins and slippery elm lozenges. And whiskey. Or you could forego the healthy food, vitamins and lozenges.
So, another weekend comes to an unceremonious end. I'll have almost a week between shows after Tuesday, so I'll get some time to rest up, do some extra promo and such before Thanksgiving week when I'm booked heavily. Yup, life is kinda boring for me. I'm thinking of getting a real job. I wonder how I'd look in one of those blue Polo shirts with the yellow emblem and khaki pants.
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