Money, Porn and Other Sordid Tales

As befits its audience, Wrigleyville tends to be filled with generic, fratty faux-Irish pubs and sports bars, where the name of the game is cheap booze and raucous behavior. This certainly has its place, but I have discovered a far more interesting option in the seemingly mislocated Risque Cafe. I first heard about this bar through Rob, who described it as antithetical to the goal of meeting women, since it is filled with posters of pin-up girls and specializes in beer, neither of which are strong attractors for females. Sure enough, upon walking inside, I was greeted with the flashing lights of a Playboy pinball machine and large portraits of scantily clad women.

Onto the beer list. Risque features a gargantuan list of over 200 American craft beers, sorted by state of origin. Skimming through, I saw some familiar regional names, like 3 Floyds (IN) and Great Lakes (OH) breweries, along with more far-flung names like Southern Tier (NY) and Rogue Ales (OR). Though some of these beers can set you back $20, each night features a $3 beer on tap. They also have an impressive offering of whiskeys, with three types of whiskey even on tap. I ordered Jack Daniels from tap simply because I'd never seen that before. In case you're curious, it doesn't taste markedly different from a regular pour.

It took us a while to notice the TV screens behind the bar, but we soon caught on to the titillating material being presented. In order of weirdness, on the right-most screen, Mondo Topless was playing, which involved a lot of bouncing cleavage. Oddly enough, the Chinese subtitles were showing underneath, though I was too far away/couldn't read quickly enough to catch them. (One line said something like "I love running through the woods au naturel!") The center screen was showing Teeth, whose plot centers on the vagina dentata myth, and thus, resulted in many disturbing scenes of dismembered members. I should mention that Ryan's friend was playing at Risque that night, so in the middle of his acoustic guitar set, he glanced up to see a dog chomping down and screamed "Oh my god!" in horrified distraction. Shockingly, this movie won a lot of acclaim at the Sundance Festival and has a fairly impressive 82% from Rotten Tomatoes. (Forgive me for my skepticism; since we were watching with the volume turned down, I was joking but didn't actually think the movie was about women's empowerment.) Finally, on the left-most screen, there was fat chick morbidly obese chick porn. Also, some shots of naked children. I didn't catch the credits on this one, but trust me, it was quite bizarre.

Afterwards, Katherine had mentioned that James was housesitting for the guy that runs his law firm for the week, and ergo, he was throwing a party. I was told to bring "as many people as possible." I started to question whether this was a good idea, but upon second thought, remembered that the time Jie and I housesat for her boss, we drove the car and left the headlights on, resulting in a dead battery. Twice. Thus, I dutifully hauled the entire gang with me to my friend's roommate's classmate's boss' mansion on the Gold Coast.

Chicago's "Gold Coast" neighborhood is so named because it is the highest concentration of luxury retail stores and wealthy homes in the city. The house in question was located on Astor, which is renowned for its magnificent mansions, originally designed and owned by all the major luminaries from the 19th century. Hugh Hefner's first Playboy mansion is also located on this stretch.

Needless to say, the home was stunning, straight out of a magazine photoshoot. There was an original Miró hanging on the wall. A jersey signed by Michael Jordan. Flat screen TVs in every room. Two decks offered views of the downtown skyline. A pool table. Fireplaces. The master bathroom toilet was in a room that was completely mirrored on all sides. (Call me crazy, but why on earth would you want to watch yourself?) Two ornate, handpainted and limited edition (by default, because the artist has died) chess sets. Leather-bound books with gilt edges lined the study. And finally, Yale paraphernalia subtly popped up wherever you looked, from the coffee table reading selections to the pennants in the background of photos. Factoring for location, this was definitely the most expensive house I've ever partied in. What a shame that much of the alcohol was locked up, not because the owners were worried about us drinking, but to "keep it away from the son."

As we toured the house, I thought of the tour buses going past the ostentatious homes of AIG executives. Does this empty-nest family need all this space? Does anyone need all this space? The answer is undoubtedly no. I could feel some tremors of populist rage welling up inside me. At the same time, it would be wicked cool to be able to afford all that. Think of the ball pit room I could design! I grew up in a comfortably middle-class family, but for the first time, I felt like a grubby street urchin illicitly peeking into the lifestyles of the Rich and Powerful. This is where cognac is sipped in the cigar smoke-filled room, where admissions decisions are smoothed with the donation of buildings, where legislation is sealed with a handshake. And the Evil part of me wants to be in that upper echelon.

Anyway, we snapped pictures of the Miró (and had Adrian stand in the picture to prove that this wasn't from a museum):