Vaughn "doublewhiskeycokenoice" C.'s Profile

The chicken 'n sides meal is a tried and true formula: roasted/fried chicken with a choice of Southern-style vegetables and starch. Chicken Run has a nice twist, offering a standard Mexican menu (it goes with the neighborhood) and supplementing their sides menu with Central American fare--meaning that the staples of mashed potatoes (with their homemade chicken gravy), mac and cheese, corn, etc. are also available with options of Mexican rice, black beans, and fried plantains.

WOAH. PLAINTAINS, YO! LIKE DELICIOUS LIL' BANANAS THAT ARE BITE-SIZED AND SWEET, NOT AWKWARDLY PHALLIC MOUTHFULS. THEY ARE AWESOME AND MAKE GREAT GIFTS. IF YOU DO NOT LIKE FRIED PLANTAINS, WE ARE NOT FRIENDS AND GODSPEED WITH YOUR UNEXAMINED, PATHETIC LIFE.

With all the high profile fare sprouting up in Logan Square like weeds, it's nice to have something cheap and cheerful as a staple. Occasionally, the chicken is on the dry side, but I keep coming back for those fried plantains.

Other notes:
1. The name of the place sounds like it came from a Looney Tunes cartoon. Support everything zany.
2. There is an awesome poster of Marilyn Monroe below one of the TVs that's nice to look at while waiting for take-out. Or eating alone when your friends abandon you.

Allow me to indulge a male chauvinist fool for a moment.

When upgrading shoe habits, there's a certain man satisfaction that's affected. And as sloppy dress permeates a larger population, these epiphanies are rarer.

I thought I was fucking smart when I introduced dress shoes to the regular rotation. But I wasn't--just superficial smart. My neanderthal brain didn't realize that trekking around Pangea in a Flintstones car will wreck your kicks. And, like sneakers, when they start flapping around like a Muppet you keep kicking in the stomach, you toss 'em. So, I bought cheap shoes and maintained a growing pile of dust-ups.

When I finally invested in a pair of solid dress shoes, I wasn't ready to let them go when the heels wore uneven and the laces were slightly frayed and scuffs were produced when saving helpless puppies from flaming houses. I brought them into Shoe Hospital and never looked back.

I've thrown a lot of damage at this place and, while sometimes they flinched, they always got the job done. I'm convinced that they could make a Frankenstein shoe out of scraps, a Ouija board, and a six pack. The price is always reasonable, and they'll shrug off judgments with raised eyebrows.

Drop a pair off, get a surprisingly therapeutic shoe shine, and take in that smell of leather and polish that conjures up the feeling of downing fine whiskey, shaving with a straight razor, and dressing your own damn wound. In that order.

Okay, so you have "DIE EMO DIE" written at the very top of the chalkboard, next to the Devourment special, and above the bear.

So, why in the fuck are you blasting Rites of Spring in the place?

Hypocrites.

Back when Myopic was on the north side of Milwaukee Ave, it was one of the more exciting used bookstores in the city--books crammed in every nook and corner (like some kind of literary gangbang), events for every esoteric taste (I wouldn't be surprised if there was a Chess for Wizards club), and it was essentially the vomit bucket for forward-thinking hipster intelligentsia (you know, college-educated junkies trying to make rent because being in a promising local band paid soooo well).

Now that they moved into the old Earwax space, it's elevated to a formidable Wicker Park institution. The space is cleaner, the system is more streamlined, and it's WAY bigger. But still packed--the "L" fiction section has provided many awkward encounters, none of which have ever led to making out in the stacks like in the movies. Myopic is basically 3 1/2 stories of bookworm buffet. Gatsby would be impressed, but only because he's such a fucking poser.

The staff is what every patron wants in a clerk: helpful and engaging. Like Quimby's, it's employed by folks who aren't waiting out a summer job--they're actually well-read. Every purchase turns into a small conversation, and I walk out with a couple of tangents to explore.

Last weekend, I picked up an old hardcover edition of Studs Terkel's "Race" interviews, only to come home and find the author had signed it. Granted, I wouldn't have been surprised if Terkel himself snuck in and blessed each copy, but it was addressed to Sonny, wishing him a good recovery.

Maybe he didn't recover, but, Sonny, thanks for the read. And thanks, Myopic, for being everything a used bookstore should be.

OMG, why the h8?

If u have no love for shiny things, then u NEVA WERE A PRINCESS!!!!!!1111 stop frontin,' Horsegirl.

This review isn't about the Ghost or Crime tours, but of their lesser-known Red Light Sex Tour. While Ken Berg is well-versed as a professional psychic and expert on occult and supernatural local phenomenons, he's also a total pervert. We co-organized a mutual friend's bachelor party and his ideas and resources were limitless.

Being the advanced species that humans are, we've perfected the ritual of "putting the hot dog in a hole until it explodes" and exploited it into an entire culture of perversions. And the Weird Chicago Sex Tour offers a glimpse into many renderings our local scene has to offer.

On the vanilla spectrum, there's vibrator demonstrations, a foray into an adult bookstore, and Kama Sutra chocolates. For the more curious, there's checking out local prostitute hangouts and a visit to a local dungeon. We walked in on a heel fetish party!

Weird Chicago's low key atmosphere is coupled with the fact that you're *all* on a sex tour, so inhibitions are out the window once the libations flow. Questions are good and none are frowned upon. Ken's flexible and knowledgeable enough to cater the tour to mild tastes, history buffs who read "Sin in the Second City," or corrode it with kink galore.

So if you ever wanted to know what pill to take to stay erect while pulling a Dirty Sanchez on some gender-ambiguous hooker at the site of where Chicago's premier South Side brothel was in 1921, this would be a good place to start asking questions.

Who cares about the pizza, it's all about Johnny Bacci!
Oh, the stories garnered from each visit--let me tell some tales:

1. A friend of mine went up to the counter to ask Johnny for a fork and knife to cut her pizza. Johnny lit up livid, grabbed a disposable utensil pack and bellowed, "You want a FUCKIN KNIFE?" I'll give you a FUCKIN' KNIFE!" He throws it at her with a "There's your FUCKIN' KNIFE." My friend sheepishly returns to the table and said, "Man, all I asked for was a fork and knife."

Johnny looks up and struts on over to the table. We braced ourselves for another outburst, but Johnny was apologetic. "Oh, I'm sorry baby. I think I misheard you. Here, let me cut this up for you." Johnny grabs her utensils and cuts her pizza into bite size pieces.

2. Two cops are sitting by the window, one older one and a younger one. A girl comes in, gets a slice to go and then leaves. Before getting on the Chicago bus, she just throws her garbage on the sidewalk outside of the window.

Johnny explodes. "What the fuck! How come someone can just throw their damn garbage right outside while two cops just sit and watch?!" The young cop makes a move to protest, but the older one calmly places his hand on him, smirking, as if to say, "Just sit back and watch the show. It's the reason I brought you here."

"You fucking lazy-ass, good-for-nothing cops! There's people in this neighborhood getting shot, tons of break ins, people throwing GARBAGE outside my store and you just sit there on your fat asses, eating pizza."

Johnny goes on and on, ripping new assholes into these guys. The grin never escapes the veteran, while the newbie's shock just turns into discomfort.

3. A friend and I went down on a Saturday afternoon. Instead of the $2.50 slice and pop, Johnny offered us two slices for $3 from a stack of boxed pizzas behind him. My dubious friend was wary.
"But Johnny, what's up with those slices. Are they no good?"
"Ah, nah. They were for a festival down the street, but we can't deliver them, so they're just sitting here."
"How come you can't deliver them?"
"The driver got incarcerated last night."

4. A man and a small boy come in, the former obviously old pals with Johnny. They exchange a hearty greeting and Johnny looks at the kid.
"PETER! How's my boy? My, you've grown quite a bit!"
The kids eyes turn into dinner plates. He's a shy one.
Out of nowhere, Johnny puts out his fist and bellows "COME KISS MY HAND LIKE GODFATHER."
My friend and I bust out laughing, as the kid dashes behind my chair.

5. It was my birthday, and for my birthday I was going to eat two slices of Bacci's and then go to Tuman's to have fifty cent beers. Obviously, this was before my metabolism decided to say "Fuck you, I hate your livelihood."

A familiar face from the neighborhood strolls in with a "What's up, Johnny!" Cheerfully, the two chat it up, just making small talk. Johnny offers him a slice, but he declines. He just stopped in to say hello. The man leaves. After a beat, Johnny runs out the door and yells down the street. "REMEMBER. STAY AWAY FROM THOSE GODDAMN SHIT DRUGS! Ya hear me? No goddam shit drugs!"

He turns around and we're all looking at him. He points a stern finger and says, "That goes to you all, too. None of them goddamn shit drugs." He pauses in contemplation and smiles, "Well, okay. Maybe like twice a year. When you're makin' love and stuff."

My friend pipes up, "Johnny, you only make love twice a year?" Johnny's face clouds once again and that stern finger became an accusatory one."You. You shut the FUCK UP."

------

I've been to the new Bacci's. And I haven't come out with any memories outside of getting my hands greasy and wiping them on my pants. Once you get a slice and a free pop with Johnny, you really can't go elsewhere.

In Alex Cox's 1984 cult film, "Repo Man," retail scenes offered an American cultural critique by presenting products in a blatantly literal manner. All packaging was dumbed down to its bare commodity, creating this sea of homogenization: beer was "BEER," cereal was "CORN FLAKES," and so on:

http://www.kuroneko-ch...

I doubt "TAVERN" intends any homage in its moniker, but it mimics Cox's satire: bland selection and beige atmosphere bring boring boozers.

This isn't a terrible thing, as its straight forwardness offers no surprises nor gimmick. But there's no character. There's really not much else this bar has to offer other than being open late, and that's when the reputation of your clientele steers the quality of one's experience.

Which might explain why I've never had a good one. This place is straight flaccid.

Consider two dude-bros gawking a Maxim, ogling some hot semi-celebrity flesh specimen, while trading vulgar comments like teenage marching band dorks swapping spit.

There's one that goes: "Duuuuuuuude, I would totally lick the [A] from right between [B] ass cheeks!" Then they would slap sweaty hi-fives with their germy Xbox hands.

Possibilities for the [A] variable could be: sweat, juice, nectar, or some kind of sexually charged fluid. For the [B], we could say it's Jessica Alba, Megan Fox, or Paris Fucking Hilton. You know where I'm going with this.

How much do I love Melissa's baked goods?
[A] Pastries Not Potatoes cookies
[B] Bea Arthur's

Kate Gibson and I met while drinking at a bar, no less. When disclosed that she was a master hair snipper, I put her on the spot and had her size me up. Kate suggested a cut that she thought would go well with my texture and facial structure. Lucidly, she articulated what worked, what didn't, and what she would do. Kate was frank, honest, and expertly professional--while we were shitfaced at a bar! I booked an appointment with her the next day.

That was a few years ago and I've followed Kate from venue to venue. From various salons (including trekking to a suburban one) to sitting in the middle of her living room while petting her dog and eating candy. Each time, I get an outstanding cut that's stylish, low maintenance, and grows out without fuss.

Since Kate's been cutting my hair, it's pretty ridiculous at how many random people ask me where I get my hair cut. It's really emasculating, but I like having at least one admirable quality. With quality work being the best advertisement, I've recommended quite a bit of business towards her--most becoming diehard regulars like myself.

Mop's Beauty Shop is her new space and by far the best: solid Victorian theme, clean, and cozy. The crew is fun, low-key, and accommodating (we were offered Goose Island cherry cola and coffee), and it's conveniently located in Logan Square. So, without any doubt, get your coif chopped at Mop's.

(A version of this review appeared at Kate's previous employer, but I've updated it for her new locale.)