Chicago.
The Windy City
The Second City
Chitown
Chiraq
Chicago has as many names, but seemingly only one reputation.
When I told people I planned to visit Chicago, I inevitably got the same question: why?
This was almost always followed by helpful advice:
"Don't go out at night."
"Avoid the south side."
"Stay away from the clubs downtown after sunset."
"Take the "L" at your own risk."
Honestly, the negativity intrigued me: how bad could it possibly be?
If you don't feel like reading further, here's the short answer: I just came back from a wonderful stroll in the cool of the evening; I enjoyed Soul Food in Hyde Park; I attended a Hip-Hop concert downtown that started at 8:00pm and I took the "L" all the way from Lincoln Park to Monroe street. I survived all of these sojourns completely unharmed. No one mugged me, shot at me, swore at me, or even gave me a dirty look.
If that sets your mind at ease, feel free to stop here. What follows is color laced with opinion and sprinklings of information. Caveat emptor.
On the adoration of John Wayne Gacy
John Wayne Gacy is to Cook County, Illinois, what Ted Bundy is to the Pacific Northwest. Ted Bundy is well on his way to deserved obscurity, whereas Gacy has a second life in the form of a series of infamous paintings he created featuring an autobiographical character, Pogo the Clown. The paintings are embarrassingly amateurish -- one part evil Bob Ross and one part 1970s Paint-By-Numbers -- but due to their diabolical artistry, they represent a trepanation into the broken mind of a serial killer.
Anyone curious enough to view these paintings can find them in the Graveface Museum, In an exact replica of JWG's prison cell, his paintings of Elvis, clowns, clowns with skulls for their head, and incongruously, multiple paintings of the Seven Dwarves (Disney apparently told him to knock it off), hang on the walls.
The museum presents not only Gacy's art (if you can call it that), but sketches and drawings by other serial killers and assorted reprobates as well. There's also a section about human oddities, presented with tenderness and tact, and some taxidermied animals with two heads.
Yeah, it's that kind of place. You either want to see it, or you really don't. There's no middle ground. If you're in the former group, you can find The Graveface Museum at 1892 N. Milwaukee Avenue.
In Search Of ... MALORT!
Glascott's Saloon (2158 N. Halsted St.) is the kind of bar that once anchored neighborhoods before the discovery of ferns and Chablis. It's a dark place where the bottles behind the bar, and the patrons, are lit up. The only concession to activities outside of drinking are three TVs, all tuned tonight to Monday Night Football. This is a serious place for serious drinkers and woe befalls anyone who orders anything clever.
My order was a "Chicago Handshake" -- a shot of Malort and a can of Old Style beer.
For those not familiar with Malort, it's a yellow liquor, native to Chicago, and is as bitter as an alimony fight. Most people do not go out of their way to drink it, but despite that, it's more or less Chicago's spirit animal. No dive bar worth its 4:00am closing time is found without. It's a terrible drink with a terrible reputation (actual slogans are "Tonight's the night you fight your dad" and "It tastes like fermented back sweat"; my own opinion is that Malort is distilled with the tears God sheds in His disappointment with mankind).
I was anxious to find out just how awful it is.
Spoiler alert: it's not good by any definition, but Germany's Underberg is far more bitter and probably twice as expensive. In a way, Malort is a good representation of Chicago: despite its reputation, it's not really that bad. If you want seedy, you can find it -- just like you can in any city -- but where else are you going to find a gut-punching pizza only a block away from American Gothic and an authentic U-boat?