Week 2 Bears Recap: Mustaches in Burbank
If a Chicago mustache grows in LA, does anyone hear it?
Sunday we were at Tin Horn Flats, a Bears bar in the middle of the sunny, porn-capital of the world, the San Fernando Valley. I didn't know what to expect. I heard this place was Chicago accents and Urlacher jerseys as far as the eye could see. This gave me hope. But honestly, this is Los Angeles, birthplace of the three-month fad (see Von Dutch hats). What were the chances?
Turns out, pretty good. Tin Horn Flats did not disappoint. The game, a decisive 34-7 blowout against the low-class Lions was over early, and I had the opportunity to observe a group of Chicagoans valiantly trying to lead their lives so far away from dipped Italian beef and Marc Giangreco. Three characters in particular caught my eye:
Punchy O'Brien
The guy in front of us gave his son "playful" slaps to the back of the head and "life-lesson" charlie horses on the shoulder every time the Bears scored (the bar also sold fifty cent beers when this occurred so against a team like the Lions, well, people were taking advantage early and often). "I'm from just north of Barrington," Punchy told me in between loving kidney blows to his son's tender lower back. He even offered to let me wind up and crack his son one, but right then Bernard Berrian sprawled out for that diving TD catch and I forgot about the generous offer.
Legs
This girl was every Chicago guy's dream. Why? Well, I didn't talk to her and still have no idea about her personality, but she had on a jean skirt, legs as long as M. Daley's tenure and an old school Bears shirt. Plus, the scrawny little actor guy she was with probably had headshots in the trunk of his car, making her quite attainable in my warped mind.
Butkus Jr.
This guy might even have been Dick Butkus' younger brother and not just because he was wearing a throwback #51 jersey. We're talking a quality salt and pepper mustache, a belly that looked like it was housing two roughhousing hooligans and a devilish smile that said, "I used to perform police brutality on jay-walkers". By the end of the game Butkus Jr. had had enough to drink so that he made Legs (the cutest girl in the bar out of three total) stand and twirl so he could get a better look at her non-Old Style swollen legs. It went something like (in your thickest Chicago accent): "Twirl for me, sweetheart. Twirl."
Two weeks in a row the Bears have looked so good, their opponent so bad, that I could relax early on and think about life's important conundrums like the perfect mustard to garnish an Italian sausage and mustachioed retired Chicago cops living in southern California.
It was a good day in the Valley. And that is probably a statement never uttered outside of Ron Jeremy's immediate social circle.
Sunday we were at Tin Horn Flats, a Bears bar in the middle of the sunny, porn-capital of the world, the San Fernando Valley. I didn't know what to expect. I heard this place was Chicago accents and Urlacher jerseys as far as the eye could see. This gave me hope. But honestly, this is Los Angeles, birthplace of the three-month fad (see Von Dutch hats). What were the chances?
Turns out, pretty good. Tin Horn Flats did not disappoint. The game, a decisive 34-7 blowout against the low-class Lions was over early, and I had the opportunity to observe a group of Chicagoans valiantly trying to lead their lives so far away from dipped Italian beef and Marc Giangreco. Three characters in particular caught my eye:
Punchy O'Brien
The guy in front of us gave his son "playful" slaps to the back of the head and "life-lesson" charlie horses on the shoulder every time the Bears scored (the bar also sold fifty cent beers when this occurred so against a team like the Lions, well, people were taking advantage early and often). "I'm from just north of Barrington," Punchy told me in between loving kidney blows to his son's tender lower back. He even offered to let me wind up and crack his son one, but right then Bernard Berrian sprawled out for that diving TD catch and I forgot about the generous offer.
Legs
This girl was every Chicago guy's dream. Why? Well, I didn't talk to her and still have no idea about her personality, but she had on a jean skirt, legs as long as M. Daley's tenure and an old school Bears shirt. Plus, the scrawny little actor guy she was with probably had headshots in the trunk of his car, making her quite attainable in my warped mind.
Butkus Jr.
This guy might even have been Dick Butkus' younger brother and not just because he was wearing a throwback #51 jersey. We're talking a quality salt and pepper mustache, a belly that looked like it was housing two roughhousing hooligans and a devilish smile that said, "I used to perform police brutality on jay-walkers". By the end of the game Butkus Jr. had had enough to drink so that he made Legs (the cutest girl in the bar out of three total) stand and twirl so he could get a better look at her non-Old Style swollen legs. It went something like (in your thickest Chicago accent): "Twirl for me, sweetheart. Twirl."
Two weeks in a row the Bears have looked so good, their opponent so bad, that I could relax early on and think about life's important conundrums like the perfect mustard to garnish an Italian sausage and mustachioed retired Chicago cops living in southern California.
It was a good day in the Valley. And that is probably a statement never uttered outside of Ron Jeremy's immediate social circle.
posted by David Stassen at 2:54 PM
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