10 CHICAGO READER | APRIL 21, 2006 | SECTION ONE

Chicago Antisocial

By Liz Armstrong

I t was all hot and sweaty atKendall’s last Thursdaynight, and there was entirely

too much TV—just TV for TV’ssake, not even good shows. AKevin Bacon movie on TNT,Elimidate, a fat-burninginfomercial, some gray shows onAMC and the History Channel,and the news all blinked simul-taneously on large-screen plas-mas. The constant clink of beerbottles being tossed into a trashcan was about all I could hearover the din of a bunch of tone-deaf dudes yelling along to“Sweet Child O’ Mine.”

You might need two IDs to getinto this Lincoln Avenue bar—that’s how many fakes they see—but bottles of Bud cost $1 andthere was no cover for the ladiesthe night my friends and I wenton a whim. It was spring breakin Lincoln Park and we weregoing native.

A short, voluptuous woman atthe bar held up the back of hershirt while a tall, skinny guyfumbled with the two twisted-upends of her bra. “Hey,” he called

was throwing down more than$300 for liquor and some cheapsports equipment from Wal-Mart. In the parking lot theyditched the volleyball and bas-ketball but kept the packaging,in which they stashed the booze.The hotel where they were stay-ing didn’t allow outside alcohol;apparently these guys had neverheard of garbage bags.

But right when they enteredthe hotel they saw a securityguard—“and I don’t mean to bepolitically incorrect or any-thing,” said CJ, “but he wasMexican.” They paid him $40 tokeep quiet about their contra-band. For each of the sevendays they were there, the firstthing they did was wake up andget drunk. “There’s so much tosay about waking up at 10:30and drinking warm rum andCoke,” he said. I went to findmy friends.

W e were still reeling fromour visit earlier that night

to the grand opening ofMaxbar, the brand-new club

inhabiting the space that usedto house Blu, run by Crobarowners Joe Vartanian and MikeMatuschka. Located just a fewdoors down from Kendall’s, itlooks like a sports bar: lots ofwood, generic tables, rectangu-lar holes in the wall where theflat-screen TVs will eventuallygo. This is where Lincoln Parkpeople go when they thinkthey’re too classy for a place likeKendall’s. The hats at Kendall’shad university and sports teamslogos; the ones at Maxbar saidVon Dutch.

The drinks menu offered abuffet of date-rape innuendo(“Very simple,” it said undersomething called the Pair-a-Dice. “Drink this. Get lucky!”)but said nothing about whatactually went into each concoc-tion. The bartender got pissedwhen I returned my Cherry SoVery (“Once you pop you justcan’t stop”) because it wasn’tcherry flavored at all, and whenI asked for a plain old dirtymartini he served it withoutolives. This is a marginal com-

plaint, but don’t charge me $12for a drink if you don’t knowhow to make it.

Toward the back of the place adance floor shimmered withmulticolored lights arranged in apattern that resembled psyche-delic vomit; a five-ass pileup waswrithing in the middle of it. Ablond woman dancing on thesubwoofers slipped and fell,cracking her chin on the table Iwas sitting at. She propped her-self up and smiled at me like itwas no big deal. That’s the spirit!

The people watching was evenbetter upstairs, where a guy inpristine puffy Asics and a pinkiering slumped on a bar stool, ablack handbag slung over hisshoulder. It didn’t go with hisoutfit, but I never saw a womancome to fetch it.

A copper-tan leprechaun inshiny clear lip gloss, smoky eye-liner, and an ostentatious calf-length D&G coat approached mewith a stack of postcards. WouldI care to sign up for the club’smailing list? he pantomimed.No, I motioned back. Hefrowned, then burst out laugh-ing, playfully hitting me on theshoulder. “I-a fuck-a bored,” hesaid, rolling his eyes. Then helifted up the enormous tails ofhis coat, stuck out his ass, andstarted pumping to “AnotherOne Bites the Dust” like a catbadly in need of a Q-Tip.

I joined him for a second, thenhe grabbed my notepad andscribbled “LUCA ITALYSMILE.” He kissed me on thecheek and flared his coattails,and with a twitch of his bum hewas gone.

Iwas still at Kendall’s when thebartender announced last call.

On my way out the door I over-heard a guy tell the lady clingingto his neck that hugging himwas fine but she better not kisshim. The guy next to themtapped a woman on the shoulderand said, “Hey, you look like aslut. Let’s go.” She shrugged hershoulders like, sure, why not?Someone else was practicallysobbing to his friend, “Whatkind of life do I want?”

My friends and I walked out ina daze, simultaneously enter-tained and disgusted by whatwe’d seen. As we were walkingback to the car, a dudeapproached us with an orangesafety cone on his head. Hethrew it into the street with aloud grunt. People streamedpast us laughing and screaming,jumping on one another’s backs.

“Unga!” yelled a man in ill-fit-ting jeans and a ringer T-shirt.Some girls across the streetscreeched in response. A cardrove by and a guy leaned outand howled. Someone elsebarked. It was like a scene froma sitcom where a kid imaginesthe crazy people around him aremonkeys. Only it was real.

Oh how I’ve misjudged you,Trixie and Chad. I thought myfriends and I were libertines, butwe still have a lot to learn. v

to me. “Can you hook this forme, please?” The woman said itjust came undone, she didn’tknow how. I fixed her up andshe kissed me on the cheek.

Later a tall ash-blond 24-year-old guy named CJ approachedme, wondering what I was doingwith a notepad. When he foundout I was a reporter, he told meof his desire to tell an importantstory, one that would, he said,“impact a lot of people.”

“So tell one,” I said. “I’m listen-ing.”

CJ’s ass hung off the edge of abar stool as he slanted forward,his left foot stuck out to keephim from crashing face-first tothe floor. He was decked out in ared T-shirt that said HAWAII in aretro-looking font, baggy jeans,a hemp necklace, and thick, slip-on brown leather mandals. Hehemmed and hawed for a while,then I asked about his bestspring break. He told me he andfive buddies went to Cancun in2002, “before hurricanes andunderage drinking ravaged theplace.” First order of business

Top: at and outside of Kendall's. Bottom: at Maxbar.

AN

DRE

A B

AUER

Spring Break in Lincoln ParkAnd you thought my friends were debauched.

antisocial@chicagoreader.com

CHICAGO READER | APRIL 21, 2006 | SECTION ONE 11