Frustration and Compromise, Here I Come!
My brother is in town until next Tuesday to attend a medical convention. He used to live here when he had a fellowship in U of C’s oncology department and had an apartment in the Lincoln Park/DePaul area. While living there, he developed a great love for John Barleycorn and tries to make a pilgrimage there every time he visits.
You might wonder, why do I hate John Barleycorn so much? Well, first let me disclose that I am rabidly allergic to khaki. Really, if I’m exposed to it for a long time I will break out in hives and if my skin comes into contact with it, I will growl and foam at the mouth. Since John Barleycorn seems to be ground zero for khaki, every time I enter the establishment, I am endangering not only myself, but those around me. Even those sad souls wearing the khaki.
So, if I lose the battle and the party ends up at Barleycorn, I’ll probably end up waiting for them at Cleo’s , where my favorite waitress, Julie, speaks Polish and English, as well as a couple other languages, and hipster folk share the bar with Polacks (my people!) of all ages from the neighborhood. They make a mean martini and there’s rarely any khaki to be found.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’ll probably end up going where everyone else wants to go, in an effort to make everybody happy, then I’ll bitch about it incessantly later. Ain’t family great?
Oh yeah, Barleycorn’s. Let me tell you about Barleycorn’s. Besides the fact that I RABIDLY hate that place, I have a great story explaining why that place totally and utterly BLOWS.
I went to Rise Sushi a couple of months ago with some freinds, and they suggested that we head over to Barleycorn’s afterwards. I started acting like a little snot, saying we should just go to Southport Lanes. But the majority won out and, before I knew it, we were on our way to Barleycorn’s.
Now, Rise and Barleycorn’s are pretty far apart (about 10 – 15 blocks?). Not far apart for summer walking, but definitely far apart for winter walking or, say, if it is pouring rain. Of course, this night was a raining night. Some light drizzle that got increasingly worse. And everyone decided to walk. Again, I throw a hissy and say we should get a cab.
So we walk to Barleycorn’s and I am totally soaked and cranky by the time we get there. All the girls in the group (4 of us) looked like we were fresh off a wet t-shirt contest, which didn’t really faze any of the patrons because that is the norm there. But it gets worse.
IT WAS KARAOKE NIGHT!
I don’t think I have ever heard anything as sad as this squirrely little birthday boy getting up on stage and singing along to Metallica. I am fairly certain it was “For Whom the Bell Tolls”. Which should be never performed by anyone but Metallica.
I have never so much wanted to try and swallow a shot glass whole, in hopes of choking and dying.
About once a year or so someone drags me to Barleycorn’s and each and every time I go I am reminded of why I stay away from there. The food: mediocre. The drinks: weak. The people: have not gotten over the their days serving on the inter-fraternity or pan-hellenic council.
Perhaps it
i can’t stand karaoke.
I cannot believe no one has made the “John Barleycorn Must Die” joke yet. (As he sits wearing his khakis.)
Khakis?!?!? Grrrrrr……Must Kill…….
Actually, one time I successfully avoided the Barleycorn trip, but my poor husband Michael did not. However, as he often does, he made the best of a very bad situation. As on very large-assed khaki-wearing, Bud-Lite swilling patron loomed a little too close to their table, my darling husband decided to use the lack of sufficient overhead lighting and candles the management so kindly provides to every table, to entertain my family with impromtu shadow puppets, using the man’s khaki-clad ass as his canvas.
That’s the one time I wish I could have been there, as from what I hear, the shadow puppets were legendary and the ass never moved from it’s tableside position.
Yes, (hangs head) khakis. What can I say, I work for The Man.
Michael performing shadow puppets on a yuppie’s ass? That’s so out of character for him. (cough)
That place is THE epitomy of shitty, yuppie, meathead Chicago bars. I’d rather drive bamboo shoots under my fingernails than EVER get dragged there again.
“Hungry Brain Resprazintin”
J’aime c’est site d’information, merci.