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Fat Elvis, Jealous Retards, and Witching Up A Bar From Nowhere before/after Today is my birthday. --------- The plates clanked, laughter moved in waves and conversation swirled around me at the party. It was my brother's wedding shower. The conversation with my grandparents had lost all its steam, mother was half in the bag and father was his gruff usual self. Wasnt in the mood for small talk, not that I'm ever in the mood for small talk although I can make it, when I spotted something over my right shoulder. It was the King. Elvis. Fat Elvis. "Where's th' happy couple?" he asked a few people, gazing at them with trademarked shades, standing in the famous one piece white jump-suit with cape. He came in, made some jokes, and set about whoring himself out. He was a spectacle, to be mocked, even though he clearly loved what he did. And mocked he was, overtly. "Over here, King!" someone pointed at Betty. And he came over and crooned to the downs syndrome child, while Teddy Bear thumped out of his boom-box. After cajoling by her sisters, she danced with him. She stuck her tongue out and loved it. He dipped her, the song ended and she gave him a peck on the cheek with a hug, taking him a bit by surprise. He recoiled a little, but not much. Hey, what can you do when you're whoring yourself out. Another song came on, and the heavy-set King kept on singing. Flashbulbs popped, and he sang to the mothers. Then he sang to Betty's downs syndrome childfriend, Sophia. He dipped Sophia, and that was about all Betty could stand. She threw her napkin down on the table with an audible thump of fist, and stomped over to Elvis, look of jealousy etched on her face, and grabbed hold of his bulbous girth for all she could stand, trying to pry Sophia off of his cellulite ridden form, to no avail. The King, staggered and missed a beat, fucking up the song. "Awh, man, I've had dreams that are sorta' like this..." The verse started again and he was on the chorus. "Got me so shaken up, I messed up the SONG." He was sweating profusely now. Then began to segue into "All Shook Up" The King finished his performance and left the building. Everyone settled down as cake and ice-cream was handed out. The warm cacaphony of clanking plates and conversation began again. Later on we went to the bar next door. Al Roker was supposed to be there, so proclaimed on a banner, but I can't say for sure that he was there. I can say for sure that I didnt give a fuck. ---- "FUCK YOU!" John shouted at me across the table in the bar, "ITS THERE GODDAMIT!" I had been chiding him for awhile about a bar he described. Supposedly there was a bar 'a few blocks away' in someone's garage with a clear plexiglas door, and barstools. Its the same old saw when guys hang out. Someone ALWAYS knows where a bar is 'a few blocks away', and it never is. Its either some entirely different bar a long ways away that they just lucked into and claimed in a moment of strife ("Yeah! Here it is! Fuck you guys!"), or its burned down, or is simply not there. So I was riding him a little. "Sure, John. Suuuure. Its THERE. It shines from a light within, drinks are half-off, and free lap dances are given to everyone who arrives. Its shangri-fuckin'-la." "GODAMMIT!" he screamed, "Im gonna' go FIND that mother fucker. NOW." I wanted to call his bluff. Because, after you've been riding someone for awhile, its all about brinksmanship. Timing. Commitment. Making the other guy blink first. "Lets do it." I said casually, cool, calm, collected. And three of us hit the streets of Chicago. Wandering, almost lost. We paused by a house that had a jacuzzi running. People were fucking in it. My brother peered over the fence for a long time. I looked too, but saw nothing. I like watching people fuck, but not so much on the secret voyeur tip. Damn, if I still smoked ciggarettes, I could watch anybody fuck. Its entertaining. Usually, anyway. We meandered around the neighborhood, finding nothing. "I'm Christopher Columbus." John said. "I feel like Christopher Columbus." "Yeah," I said, still riding him, waiting for the inevitable collapse,"Except Columbus knew there was shit there, to be found. If you're an explorer, I say you're more like Ponce De Leon." He grumbled in response. "Just like the Fountain of Youth, the beer will make us young, and we will never leave." He muttered but said nothing. Finally after doubling back, he lost his confidence, about to call it quits. I peered down the street, and saw a neon light in the distance. "Allright," I said, "We came all this way. Before we head back, lets check out that one light a block down. If its nothing we head back to the bar." We agreed and walked down to the light. As we approached, strains of Styx wafted through the quiet night air towards us. We rounded a hedge of thick bushes and light emenated from within the building, almost overpowering. It was the bar. Holy Hell. Or, a bar, rather. Signs littered the place, clearly a garage with a bar built into it, all kinds of neon and reflective gear, pointless signs about nothing and pertaining to nothing. License plates, novelties, tourist trap items, dry erase boards and a black light. On the dry erase board, it said "Rudy's Lounge." And this was obviously Rudy's garage. And I was looking at Rudy. Jeans and a grey sweatshirt, hardbitten, mid forties to mid fifties, walrus moustache lookin' motherfucker. We stood in the middle of his garage staring at him in awe. John had done it. Witched up a bar, out of his ass, drunk off his ass, only a few blocks away. In the realm of guy, that is very cool. In the realm of guy, you cannot buy credibility like that. Jabbering about the thrill of finding the needle in the haystack, the mythical bar, the seeming ufo sighting aspect of it all, it took us a minute to realize that we were trodding on private property in someone's garage. Rudy seemed none too happy to see us. "This isnt a bar, its someone's garage," I whispered to the guys. "Can we have a beer?" my brother asked Rudy. "No." Rudy said flatly. And I explained to him how we had set out to find a bar and wandered a few blocks thinking we'd never find it. I also complimented his place, although now, honestly it seems a little sad. Put another way, if Im approaching fifty, and all I have to show for it is the bar in my garage done up in tourist trap shit and a black light, then shoot me in the fucking head right now. I'd rather have less and have no one no about it rather than have that be my crowning acheivement. And one look on Rudy's face said it was. Still, we found the bar, and went back to the prior establishment like conquering heros. Needless to say, none of the women cared. Listless, and unimpressed, they continued talking about girl bullshit. The one guy who had stayed was being made to drink water by his girlfriend. It was pathetic. One girl decided to venture out with John. I lent her my camera, to take a picture. She tried, but when she returned, the picture didnt come out. Just like a UFO.
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