I'm back! And just in time for the Kankakee County Fair.

I have lived in Kankakee County for 20 out of my 24 years. And yet, despite all the wondrous opportunities it has presented me (red hots, river floats and $1 every-night Budweisers to name a few), I had never truly experienced perhaps its most prestigious event of the year: The Kankakee County Fair. Two years ago, I danced the night away in the beer tent to what I believe was The Silhouettes' 5,000th Kankakee County performance. While groovin' to Mustang Sally and Tutti-Frutti was a good time and all, it paled in comparison to the events of last night.

I'll tell you what; there's just something about seeing a beat-down old school bus with a paint job that made it resemble a pig (sponsored by the renowned Kankakee Swine Barn) ram head-on at 40 mph into a Wal-Mart themed beat-down old school bus that makes you want to get up from your seat, high-five the redneck to your right, and yell "Hell Yeah"

A hearty congratulations goes out to the winning bus "Kids with Kids" (shown here on right, with patriotic paint job). Surprisingly, the bus was named after children who own baby goats, and NOT the large population of Kankakee County residents who have given birth prior to turning 16.

Little did I expect that, in addition to recreational fun, the fair would also present an educational opportunity. First, I learned that a school bus driving with no tires while also on fire is much more exhilarating than one that has all of its tires and is not on fire. Second, I should never eat a ball of curly fries if said ball has a circumference of more than 12 inches. And lastly, never join in on a line dance with an 18 year old boy who knows the steps to every line dance in existence, never shows any emotion, and who looks like he believes Middle Earth actually exists. The death stare he gave my friend Kim for stealing his spotlight shook me to the core.

Finally, I have included this video for your enjoyment. Two things to keep an eye out for: 1) The amount of pure joy that dancing to this song gives to the two ladies on the left. 2)The guy WASN'T lying...that's his wife in the blue.

I guess this song is one more thing that makes me want to yell "Hell Yeah."

Club K3

"Where Every Beer's A New Adventure!"

A Wasted Double Whammy

I've been around my fair share of drunks who like to engage in odd activities when intoxicated (I'm sure if  you went to college, you have to). To give one example: my college friend Bubbles' (despite being named Bubbles, he is actually 6'6 and about 270 lb) freshman year roommate, a well-built ox of a kid with flowing, golden hair and aptly nicknamed "Kid Herc." Every night when Kid Herc would go out drinking, he donned the red full-body jumpsuit from his high school's math team's competitions and would get so drunk that he'd come back to the dorm and destroy whatever (or whomever) lay in his path. Lifting up a loft and smashing the leg of it through a dresser drawer, wildly tossing around Bubbles' papers and clothes, punching a close friend of his in the face because the kid dared to tease him, and brandishing a knife when he happened to run into Bubbles' in a basement hallway were all examples of his terror. And despite being 6'6, Bubbles was TERRIFIED of Kid Herc. The same night of the hallway encounter, I went to go brush my teeth down the hall only to come back to a locked door. Bewildered, I knocked. Bubbles answered, breathing heavier than Precious after a 100-yard dash.

Kid Herc is just one case of curious (if not life-threatening) drunken tendencies that we all have. Bubbles would buy endless rounds of shots despite checking his bank account before going out and finding countless "Overdrawn!" notifications. My other friend jumpkick parked cars, another would go on and on about his desire for some of these, and I'll never forget my friends' neighbor Dan, who drank Montezuma tequila and Miller Lite together, called it a "Dan Bomb" then left to go shoot of fireworks. We all have them, including myself-I was known to pee in a few garbage cans because I was too lazy to walk all the way down the hall to the community bathroom. Better to have sogging wet failed essay rough drafts than cause physical harm, in my opinion.

The point of all this is that we all do some crazy shit when we're drunk. Kankakeeans, however, almost collectively like to do one thing: talk. And what do they talk about? You guessed it...themselves. Which brings me to Tuesday night. If you read my last post, you will have noticed that I mentioned my friend Brian and I going out to City Tavern to watch the Heat-Celtics game. We thought it would be just like any other ordinary Tuesday at City-a few pints, a little bball on the tube, and of course, karaoke provided by none other than Kankakee's finest karaoke wizard: Cool Cat in the Top Hat.

Cool Cat wouldn't arrive until later. Who did arrive, however, was more than we bargained for. His name was Harold, and he showed up at 7:30 absolutely tanked. It's kind of a bad picture, but here he is (he's the one who's head is directly to the right of my Schlitz).

                                          

As soon as he walked in, Harold, a 50-something with gray hair and goatee, made sure he had the attention of all 9 people in the bar. The bartender (the same one with the fake tits and illegitimate child from 2 posts ago) clearly was used to his schtick because I don't think I've heard a less enthusiastic greeting for somone named Harold in my life. Maybe I just spent too much time around my fellow kindergartners at the Life Education Center. Either way, when Harold introduced himself to everyone as "Mr. Asshole," I knew he was going to be quite the entertainer. To my enjoyment, though, the entertainment didn't stop. As soon as he ordered a drink he yelled to everyone he had just won $50, and would buy everyone to his right (2 middle-aged dudes) and two people down on his left  (a couple around Harold's age as well, and cutting it off right at me) a drink. Very offended, I asked him what I did to not deserve a drink. That was all the persusasion necessary for him to get me, my Asian friend Brian, and the two Mexicans two our left a drink. In fact, it made him want to give all his older peeps TWO drinks while buying all us younger/minority folk one.

It was right after the first round that Harold, as these types usually do when they come into a bit of money, wanted to gamble it away. "I'll play any of you mother fuckers in pool for fifty bucks! Come on, any of you! Fifty bucks, right now!" When nobody took him up on that, he tried an alternative. "Alright, who wants to shoot some dice? You two? (pointing at the Mexicans) Come on, just two dollars! Or two pesos?" Luckily for Harold, the two Mexicans had a good sense of humor and didn't beat him to a pulp. Luckily for me, Harold kept talking. "Hey everyone! I just got my driver's license back today!! First time since 2006!"

Naturally, I lost it at that point. After everyone gave him their warm congratulations, Brian and I decided we needed to get him a shot, (to thank him for the drink, definitely not to get him more drunk) so we did a game-changer; the term my friends created for McGillicuddy's peppermint schnapps for some unexplained reason. Thus began our conversation with this classy gentleman. I asked him where he was from (Kankakee) and where he went to high school (Eastridge) in the hopes of my dad possibly knowing him. I don't think my dad would've known him though because when I asked what year he graduated (stupid question) he mumbled something about '78. I asked him if he did in fact say '78, to which he replied "No, I quit in '72 was in jail in '78."  Suddenly everything began to make sense. When I asked him if he was going to have a celebratory drunken drive home after getting his license back for the first time in four years, he said he didn't know, and that he was already on his 3rd DUI. No surprises there. Brian then told him he probably shouldn't take the risk. Harold thought about it for a second, looked Brian straight in the eye, and with a dead serious face, asked... "Why?"

 I'm afraid if you don't know that, Harold, you don't deserve to know.

After he was done with us, he went back to annoying the shit out of the older couple. The woman clearly didn't want any part of him, and I knew this mostly because she was standing up with her eyes closed and both arms out, thumbs and forefingers touching and swaying back and forth by herself to "Oh Girl" by the Chi-Lites. The husband (we'll call him Larry), was a heavy-set Kankakee-born, Ontario-raised man with big glasses and a ponytail. I'll give it to Larry because he did a good job of putting up with Harold, but after about an hour of chatting he finally got away and brought his wife to the other side of the bar. When Harold noticed this, he asked them why they left him. The bartender (I'll henceforth call her Fake Tits) joked it was because he smelled, so Harold yelled "What Larry? You don't like my farts?" Needless to say, I don't think Larry liked Harold's farts.

Harold made a few more inappropriate comments directed at Fake Tits ("the best tip I can give you is for you to come home and have sex with me") and finally walked out the door. Fearing I would miss his grand exit, I ran out the door, expecting him to start the car and swerve off into the distance. But he wasn't driving anywhere. He was walking across the train tracks to Plush, The Conversation Bar. I tried to snap a monumental picture of him, but he was too far away and it was getting dark.

Not surprisingly, that wasn't the last we saw of Harold. About an hour later he showed back up dancing and clapping while "Surfin' USA" played on the jukebox with a gigantic shit-eating grin on his face. But after I ordered a drink and turned around to look back at him, he was gone again. Now that's a grand exit.

Whammy #1? Check. But I'm only getting warmed up. Brian and I were just coming down from our Harold High when a dainty, cougar-ish woman sat down in between ourselves and the Mexicans. We didn't think much of it and we continued to watch the game. When Brian pulled out his iPhone and was messing around on it, however, the woman started asking him about it; what version it was, various apps, etc. They began to make small talk about their time spent in New York City among other things, while I interjected every once in awhile. Her name was Trish and she told us she was from Pittsburgh, lived in NYC where she used to be a drummer in a band, and moved to Illinois with her now-ex husband. Her new husband was from Bourbonnais, and they were living in town until April, when they planned on moving to Houston. She was a little overly chatty, but we made decent conversation and it seemed like she had a decent taste in music. It seemed like we had actually met a normal, interesting person in a Kankakee bar.

Boy, were we ever wrong. We soon sensed something was fishy when Trish told us she was waiting for her friends, who, according to her, were "some awesome chicks." The thing was, when we asked for their names she said "Um, Jamie, Krystal, and....I don't remember the other one's name." After a bit more drinking and talking, she turned around and let out a little yip, as she spotted her friends sitting at a table behind us. The same friends who I had seen walk in about 10 minutes previously. Hmmmm. She went up to chat with them, then forced them to come over to us for introductions. She gave them our names and then introduced us to Jamie and Krystal. Except Krystal's name wasn't Krystal-it was Amanda, who I'm assuming was "the other one" Trish had mentioned earlier. After that awkward exchange, we all sat down together at a table while Cool Cat was taking the stage.

Quick sidenote:
I was more than disappointed in Cool Cat early in the evening as he wasn't even wearing his signature Top Hat. I'm a big fan of his, except when he gushes over how vocally talented his girlfirend is and she inevitably leaves everyone but him underwhelmed. Other than that, he's a decent dude. Without the hat though, he's just a semi-creepy 30 year old with severely greased back hair and (at least on this night) a jack-o-lantern t-shirt. Thank God he put the hat on later.

Back at the bar, Trish got up again, this time to say hi to the real Krystal who had just walked in. I immmediately asked Jamie and Amanda "So it seems you guys are pretty close friends, eh?" Jamie then told me they had just met her last Tuesday. At City Tavern. On Cool Cat night. They told us she was a fun lady, but very intense and very susceptible to the sauce. Just like with Harold and his jail time, Trish's story was getting much clearer by the second.

I eventually got her one-on-one to do a little chatting and really get to know her story. These were the highlights:

• She was an Aquarius, and thus was very strong-willed and feisty.
• She then guessed my Zodiac sign for 5 minutes, naming about 8 different ones and still not getting it right
• When I told her my birthdate and she still didn't know which Zodiac I was, she said she "wasn't all that into astrology."
• She called her Dad "Scoop." Scoop's birthday was on April 2nd, and every year she called him on April 1st to wish him an April Fool's happy birthday. She had been doing this for more than 20 years.
• She said she had a TV show called "Star Stalker." I have no idea what that means, or how that's even possible.
• When she lived in NYC, she dated the editor-in-chief of High Times magazine.
• She was on allergy pills and her "equilibrium was all fucked up" (the reason she gave for why she couldn't maintain her balance)
• She didn't do hardcore drugs but did occasionally smoke some "green," and when she did, she was "very tight with God". Those must have been some enlightening conversations.
• She was childhood friends with Brandon Boyd, the lead singer of 3 Doors Down.
• She must have not been as tight with him as her high-self was with God, since Brandon Boyd is the lead singer of Incubus.
• She had a very handy nautical star tattoo on her right arm. She and her husband were going to buy a boat soon, and you can always find your way at sea with a nautical star tattoo on your arm. Duh.
• She owned a window-cleaning company and thus obviously made "shitloads of money."
• She was wearing earrings that cost "$3,000." "Why wear them at just weddings? I wear them whenever I feel like it."

As Trish was spewing this incredible amount of bullshit, I was switching between looking down at my phone and every once in a while looking up and nodding my head. I apologized to her, saying that i was texting my girlfriend who lived in Chicago. Except I wasn't texting my girlfriend. I was writing down all of those bullet points you now see above.

We drank some more beers and did some more karaoke as our table was dominating the stage. Trish asked about 15 different people to do songs with her, as you could tell when she performed she had become a drummer for a reason.

It was getting late (about midnight, remember Brian and I had been there since 7) and I was driving home, so I went up for one last beer right before Brian and Jamie went up to do a rap song (Brian's first of the night) that I don't know the name of because I'm too white and listen to too much folk-rock to know the names of rap songs. Anyway, who was to meet me up at the bar but Trish, who said I owed her a shot because I told her Brian wouldn't do a song that night.

I had no recollection whatsoever of making that bet because obviously it didn't happen. But since I was loving the ridiculousness of her company, I reluctantly obliged and told her I would do one with her, thinking it would be some sort of fruity mix that cougars thrive on. But no, what did she order? Two shots of Wild Turkey bourbon. The 101-proof whiskey known, according to Wikipedia, as "The Dirty Bird", "Gobble Gobble", "Bombed Tom", "Thunder Chicken", "Boat Gas", "Whiskey Tango", and "The Kickin’ Chicken." Sorry but a Thunder Chicken is not exactly something I want to drink right before I get ready to drive home. Nevertheless, I sucked it up and did it with her.

And yet that still wasn't the end of her requests. "There's just one more thing," she said, her voice getting quieter. I nervously asked her what I could do and she replied, "my husband's out of town and my friends that were supposed to show up didn't, so I have no way home. It's only down on Cobb. Would you take me home?" I was stunned. I told her yes, there was NOTHING I would rather do then to end the night by bringing her home (and not for reasons you're thinking).  I was so ecstatic for the next hour that I wanted to leave right then both to make sure this actually happened, and to see if the appearance of her house matched the claims of her socioeconomic status.

 I had to wait, however, because the questions kept coming. She asked me if i was hungry, and since I had been drinking for 5 hours, clearly I said yes. Frozen pizza was the only thing the bar had, so I told her that would be fine and that we should get it. There was only one problem: the girl with the earrings worth 3K didn't have any cash. "I always have money here,(slapping her front left pocket) here,(slapping her front right pocket) and here (slapping her back right pocket). Except my husband took my money from here (front right) and here, (back right) and I'm all out here (front left). I was a little ticked off now, but my hunger overrode my frustration with the crazy broad and our whole table dined on the pizza.

Finally, it was time to leave. I told her Brian and I were leaving and that if she wanted to come with, we were going now no matter what. Somehow she had already gotten into a bag of pretzels and was munching away and chatting to some other dude. She walked outside with us, then told us to wait a second, she'd be right back. When she did come back, my previous fears were realized. According to her, Jamie was going to give her a ride because "my cousin is sleeping in my basement and I don't want him to see me come back all fucked up." That made perfect sense, as staying at the bar to drink more would definitely prevent you from getting too "fucked up" to show yourself in front of your cousin. I drove Brian home as we sat speechless, not being able to put into words what had just happened to us. Luckily, I did find the words. From the looks of it more than a thousand.

Only in Kankakee.

Club K3
"Where Every Beer is a New Adventure"

A Hodgepodge of Good ol' Fashioned Morons (Part 2...kinda)

I know I said I would have this second dosage of my encounters with Kankakee idiots up yesterday, but that obviously didn't happen. Turns out it's not going to be up today either. Sorry About Being Sweet (SABS). Instead of posting last night, I decided to go Halloween shopping with my Asian friend Brian. I set out to look for items for the entire cast of Napoleon Dynamite, while he searched for various accessories in order to be...an Asian man. Curious, I know. The plan went beautifully, however; not because we found fantastic costumes, but rather that we ended up drinking beers with two of the most fascinating characters I have ever come across. Stay tuned in to Club K3 because their stories will be up soon enough.

I feel like I should explain the new Club K3 Drunk of the Month since I failed to in the last post. Moral of the story is he's an overweight, bald idiot that we met outside of City Tavern. A group of us came there after a wedding, and when someone shows up to a bar/anywhere in Kankakee wearing a suit and tie, he or she is almost always subjected to a round of 20 Questions from some guy in a camouflage outfit. It's just that rare. Anyway, his bloodshot eyes took one look at us, decided we were Nazarene (I played along, telling him I graduated from the fictional Trinity Christian College...Go Fighting Friars!!), and began dishing out assumptions of our backgrounds and educations like his mom has dished out his dinners for some 28 odd years of his life. There was nothing else to do but bullshit with him and declare everything he said as true. We even let him believe that two of members of the group I was with were engaged, to which he was very congratulatory. I'm guessing it was mainly due to his realization that no woman would ever want to converse with him for more than 5 minutes, let alone spend the rest of her life with him.

A Hodgepodge of Good ol' Fashioned Morons (Part 1)

For any out-of-towners who happen to come across this blog and who have future plans to visit our fair city, there are two essential factoids you must learn before going out carousing at the Kankakee County bars. 1) If you order anything but a Bud Light, Miller Lite, Coors Light, Busch Light, or Jagerbomb, you will receive at least a dozen odd glances in your direction. 2) Depending on how many bars you go to (must be at least 3) and how many hours you are out drinking (at least 4), you are guaranteed to hear these 4 songs on the respective jukeboxes (or, as I started calling them 30 seconds ago, the Holy Quadrumvirate):

• Living on a Prayer-Bon Jovi.
• Don't Stop Believin'-Journey.
• Shots (shots, shots, shots, shots, shots)-LMFAO.
• And this song, which when sung by 37 year olds with tatoos of bloody butterflies on their lower backs, typically plays on repeat in my nightmares that night.

Also, you know things are looking up for you and your friends when you hear mashups of any combination of those 4 (as I have at On the Rox). Sidenote: the bar On the Rox in Kankakee, although being the prime destination for any 20-something looking to grind on overweight girls, has one inexcusable flaw. On the front of the banner that hangs on a lightpole near the entrance, it denotes the name of the bar-On the Rox. But on the back side it changes to the accurately spelled "On the Rocks". It's like the owners were trying to be hip and grammatically correct at the same time and didn't know which road to take. Poor managerial judgment if you ask me.

Now, since the last time I posted, there understandably hasn't been a story that could rival that of Wild Bill's. I've had a few interesting adventures and met some of your typical asshats, but nothing that has been wild and crazy enough to turn itself into its own separate post. Thus, I've decided to make this entry a sort of highlight package of people i've encountered in my last year and half drinking in Kankakee. Also, you may have noticed that fat neo-Nazi looking dude who has taken over for Wild Bill in Club K3's Drunk of the Month. I'll get to him later. He's one of the asshats. I really like the word asshat.

I also really like alliteration, and thus will call this section Brainless Bartenders. As I don't want to generalize all bartenders in Kankakee County as idiots and morons, I'll put it lightly and say that "many"  Kankakee-area bartenders are idiots and morons. Take this one for example:

It was the night of my 23rd birthday and as I had just watched an episode of my favorite show of all time giving the background of my favorite character in the show,  I was pretty pumped up. I decided I wanted to have my friends meet me at The Office, a tiny bar off of Rt. 17 known for its everyday $1 Miller Lites and its title of  main stomping grounds for the biggest, baddest, and most likely cheapest, motorcycle gang in town: The Hieland Road Hotrods. I got to the bar before any of my friends did as that song about rain making corn and corn making whiskey that has the lyrical skill of an alcoholic pre-schooler blared on the jukebox. Being as I was one of only a handful of people at the bar, especially one that did NOT appear to be regular clientele, the bartender decided to chat with me. (At the time I was wearing a Juarez, Mexico T-shirt that I had bought at a market there. My youth group in high school went down to the poverty-stricken city to build houses for desperate families, and it was a really rewarding experience.)

Anyway, the conversation with this 40-year-old was simple enough. She asked me where I lived and I told her just down the street. Her response was "Oh, it seems a lot of people live over there." I could tell from that point it was going to be a really stimulating conversation. I told her yep, thats what all those houses are probably for. Except I didn't say that, I just kind of nodded my head. She wasn't finished, though. Looking at my shirt she inquired,
"Been to Mexico?"
To which I responded yes, I had been to Mexico.
"What part?"
After taking a quick look down at the name JUAREZ splattered across my chest, I looked back up and said "Juarez."
She gave a quick smile, uttered "I love vacations" and turned around to serve another customer.

As anyone who knows anything about Juarez, it ain't exactly Cancun.

Another story happened a little farther down the road at a little restaurant/pub called Ryan's Pier. Never a place to be without its own little quirks, (I still occasionally order the "Biscuits and Gray" stemming from a mistake on the menu that lasted about 10 years) the Pier has a gimmick known as Drinking Around the World, in which a customer has to drink a beer from each country in the bar's stock. I think it's a total of 20 or so beers, and if you do it once you get a Ryan's Pier T-shirt. Do it twice, you receive a badass sweatshirt, and three times gets your name on a small plaque that hangs on the restaurant's walls ( basically the Stanley Cup for young central-Illinois drunkards). Given that about 4 of my relatives' names are on that plaque, I decided it was about time to start my own Ryan's Pier drinking quest. The first night I didn't make much of a dent in my trip, only knocking out Mexico and Japan. It was second trip that brought me this gem.

I walked in with a coworker at 4:30 on a Wednesday afternoon, looking to check a couple more countries off my list. Not knowing where to start, I asked the bartender, who was also most likely in her 40's, what she recommended. She suggested I go with New Belgium Fat Tire, a beer I had had before and liked so I went with the suggestion, not knowing much of the background of the beer. I gave her my card, she wrote on it, and  I put it back in my pocket without looking at it. We stayed for a couple more beers and I ventured on home. After I got back home and was sitting on my couch, I took out the card to inspect it. There on the third line under Mexico and Japan, this clueless lady had written "New Belgium" as the country where Fat Tire was brewed. Obviously, New Belgium certainly isn't an actual country, but the best part about that little mistake is that Fat Tire isn't even brewed overseas, it's made in, you guessed it...Fort Collins, Colorado. Now when I go back I can't wait to check the beer 312 off my list-you know, the beer from that mystical country called Goose Island.

To add one more member to the all-Kankakee bartender 1st team: the girl with the fake tits in which 75% of Kankakee men know her weekly schedule (surprise, surprise: she has an illegitimate child).

Since I have a few more short stories to tell, and don't feel like writing any more, I'll save the second part of this post for tomorrow. And if that pisses you off, well, to quote my friend Roy D. Mercer, I'll mop the floor with your ass then whoop it for not gettin in the corners.

Club K3
"Where Every Beer's a New Adventure"

I Found This Mexican...

...lying on the ground in the parking lot of TJ's. Something tells me he eventually ended up blowing chunks of soft pretzel all over himself and the back of his buddy's car, running around in an open field on Brown Blvd. in Bourbonnais while that same buddy chased him, and getting locked out of his house because he lost his keys and couldn't form one comprehensible English word in order to help locate them. Just looking at this picture tells me all that.

The Exploits of Wild Bill

Most people my age when asked what they think of Kankakee probably won't shower the town with praise. They complain that there's nothing to do, the nightlife sucks (if you continue to read this blog you'll realize that claim is utterly ridiculous) or that they're sick of seeing the same people in  the same places. Others like to bring up the high poverty and violence rates. Both have a point.

If you clicked on that link, you'll notice that rating was formed more than a decade ago, and in my opinion, the town has significantly improved since then. This doesn't mean all is hunky dory, though. Kankakee still has many, many cons. Count "Wild Bill" as one of those cons: in possibly more ways than one.

I'd like to preface this story by stating that every word of the following is true. Scout's honor. And by Scout's honor I meant Indian Guide's honor. (Yes, I was one of those kids who claimed they were in a "tribe," wore cardboard headdresses, and went on scavenger hunts looking for rocks that looked like states. You know, just like the Indians did it.) Anyway, the story of Wild Bill begins like this:

I woke up the morning of Friday, September 3rd to a curious sight. I use my phone as my alarm clock, and when I reached to turn it off, I noticed I had one missed call that just so happened to come from an unknown number at 5:10 am. Having no idea what it could possibly be, I checked my voicemail. This is what I heard:

Hammered Nutjob

You can imagine my bewilderment and enjoyment after hearing that. Not only had this completly wasted dude somehow got my number, he was, in the most hilarious/vulgar of ways, telling me to come pick up my phone (which was sitting at the foot of my bed) from behind Denny's where he was currently residing. I preceded to play it for everyone at my work, who all were just as amused as I was. I naturally assumed it was simply a misdial; that is until about 2:30 pm, when I got a call from my friend Alli. Turns out it wasn't Alli, however-it was her roommate Kristy, one of my close friends. This is how the exchange went down.

Kristy: "Where's my phoneeeee, wah wah wah sob sob sob??"
Me: "How the fuck should I know?"
Kristy: "This is serious. I think someone is holding my phone for ransom."
Me: (after holding in laughter for 30 seconds) "Oh man, I think I know who has your phone. And you're not going to like it."

And now to the previous night:

It was the night of September 2nd, and my friends and I had big plans to go out on the town to celebrate our buddy's 24th birthday. A few of us were pregaming at our friend Kristy's apartment/night club in Bourbonnais when I got a text message from the birthday boy that his car had broken down in Orland Park and he wouldn't be able to make it out. Disappointing though it was to not see him, we didn't let this fact deter us and we continued to drink at the club before heading out to Oliver's on Rt 50.

For the first hour, the night at Oliver's was pretty tame. The place was hardly packed for a Thursday (Martini Night!) and we were going about our business enjoying conversation and feeling slightly buzzed. Really, the most exciting thing going on was the thrilling duel of Golden Tee between two middle aged men in the corner. That was before we befriended the slick, moustached gentleman sitting next to us all by himself.

Now at first glance, he seemed like your average Kankakeean. And at second and third, he still seemed like your average Kankakeean. His skull and crossbones surprised no one, nor did the lack of all his teeth. But when Kristy (who will be a fixture in these posts by the way) started making small talk with the man, clearly on the path to her devious plan of free shots, is when things really got cooking. We learned two things instantly about this man.  First, his name was Bill. And second, earlier in the day he had just so happened, so he said, to come across a blank envelope containing a grand sum of $10,000. This didn't really rattle me, as I'm used to drunk people around town stating outlandish falsehoods (e.g. The "Ireland" native who turned about to be from... you guessed it...Manteno). None of us really cared though because the shots were flowing, and Bill was buying. All of them. For a grand total of 8 of us. I'm a guy who can handle his liquor, but when doing consecutive shots like that, I tend to steer clear. However, I've always had difficulty saying no to red-headed sluts, especially when there's a large group partaking.

Meanwhile, on one side of the bar, Kristy and Bill were becoming quite chummy. Seeing how her plan had already worked, yet she was still continuing to talk to him, I knew it was about time to head home. But for Kristy, Bill, and a few others, the night had only just begun. A group of 5 of them made their way over to City Tavern in Kankakee, where more of the same went down: Bill dishing out a healthy portion of his "$10,000" and my friends taking full advantage. Anyway, all seemed well at bar close when everyone went their separate ways, secretly hoping never to see Bill again but also secretly hoping they'd run into him again when they're in the mood for mixing Butterscotch Schnopps, whiskey, and Red Bull in a glass, downing it,  and yelling "America!"

We return to Friday afternoon. The part where Kristy's flipping out about a strange 40-something asking her for money in exchange for her phone, and I'm dying of laughter. Luckily, I still had his number saved from my missed call, and I gave her the number. I desperately regret not hearing that particular conversation, but they eventually decided on a rendezous point of Vito's Pizza on Armour Rd, which just so happens to be next to the Motel 6, which just so happens to be, yep, right behind Denny's. The exchange wasn't easy, though. After his initial offer of giving Kristy his Motel 6 room number, her coming up and him sliding the key under the door was refused, he then made them (she was accompanied by 2 friends) wait in the parking lot for 20 minutes because he had "to shower." Finally, he came out, approached Kristy's car and gave her the phone, uttering a simple "sorry." No violence, no money exchange gone wrong-I know, a tad anti-climactic.

The story hardly ends there, however. Thankful that her throat was still in one piece, Kristy instantly started thumbing through her phone. She quickly realized that ol' Bill had a good deal of fun while he had it in his possession. In addition to calling me, he called about 3 other of Kristy's friends that night thinking that somehow she would answer (my 85 year-old grandfather who can't remember his lone daughter's name has better cell phone knowledge than that) and also was even RESPONDING to text messages she received throughout the next day. My personal favorite was sent by my friend Bergen, who asked her if she wanted to help out coaching a 7th grade girls basketball team; to which Bill simply responded "Yes, I do." For some reason, I don't think I'd trust him around 13 year old school girls. He also sent a recorded text to Kristy's friend saying: "I have your phone, if you want it, it's going to cost you."  Again, how he thought she would answer this message from a friend's phone 30 minutes away is beyond me.

We all thought it would end there (and I bet you thought the same thing about this post). However, after Kristy told her mom the whole story the next day, her mom pointed out the The Bank of Chebanse had just gotten robbed the day before. The police had the suspect in custody but the money was nowhere to be found and they were still investigating. The total amount of cash missing?  TEN. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. When I checked the Daily Journal the next day, sure enough, there was the article. Ten grand missing. Suspect in custody. And....an unknown accomplice still on the loose.


At first when I heard about the robbery, I was pretty skeptical. After the accomplice mention, however, I became a little less leery. It wasn't until I put myself in the shoes of a hillbilly who just robbed the Bank of Chebanse that I was completely convinced it was our guy the police were looking for. I thought,  if I was an Iroquois County lowlife who had just come across $10,000, where would I go? Well clearly I'd first go straight to Target to purchase the newest Rascal Flatts album. But then I'd go straight to a martini bar in Bourbonnais! Where else??

Now, I realize events like this don't happen every weekend at Kankakee County bars. However, if I can meet another man remotely close in behavior to that of "Wild Bill," I'll be a happy man.

Club K3
"Where Every Beer's a New Adventure"


More pics of Wild Bill (Kristy hasn't gone to the cops yet even though I keep telling her she should. But we wouldn't have much on him except his phone number, residence, multiple photos, and his $10,000 envelope. So maybe it's not worth it).

Welcome to Club K3!

Welcome to Club K3, Kankakee's one and only bar blog! When I moved back to the Kankakee area after graduating college, I realized (as most do) that the options for a 20-something looking for excitement in this town are pretty sparse. I had come to know our local watering holes fairly well from coming back my senior year on holidays, but it was when I became firmly entrenched here (by entrenched I mean living with my parents) that I realized just how dynamic the Kankakee bar scene can be. Whether it's Vietnamese bamboo-vendors, cougars pleading for the attention of Chicago Bears 3rd-string linemen, or a possible bank robber buying people half his age multiple rounds of Red-Headed Sluts, there's always something extraordinary to see when Kankakeeans consume alcohol. So saddle up! Because at Club K3, Every Beer's a New Adventure.