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How To Remind Yourself About Dr. Octagon



This is to remind myself I already told Bridget the story about me and Christopher Sly going to a bar late at night, technically early in the morning I suppose, in Chicago.

We left Inner Town Pub close to when it was closing and ended up in a bar down the street that stayed open an hour later.

I forget the name of this bar, but it was tiny and probably blue and dark and had a jukebox.

We ordered a beer, something in a bottle because if it were in a bottle it couldn’t be watered down, then sat on a barstool at the counter.

A large group sat in the back, totally immersed in their conversation, empty beer bottles on the table, fuller ones in their hands.

Christopher Sly went to the jukebox.

“Oh shit,” he said, “they have Dr. Octagon.”

He put cash into the jukebox and selected his tracks.

We drank our beers, standing with our backs against the counter and facing the jukebox, mostly staring at the light shining from it.

At some point the first Dr. Octagon track played: “Half Shark Half Alligator Man.”

We continued drinking our beers, using our chins to bounce to the beat, laughing at the lyrics.

A few minutes later, when that first song ended, another Dr. Octagon track played, back-to-back: “Earth People.”

Our beer bottles were empty, but we were jamming earnestly to the mid-90s hip hop.

The third song, “Girl Let Me Touch You,” was off the same album.

We listened to the sexually charged lyrics.

“It’s morning, seven o’clock, you at my clinic. It’s me your orthopedic, gynecologist,”  Dr. Octagon, who is really Kool Keith, said.

A woman from the large party seated around the table stood and walked over to the jukebox.

She looked closely at what track was playing and from what album.

“Dr. Octagon?” she said, seriously confused.

We observed her brazenly, without really caring if she saw us.

She walked back to the table and said something that got everyone’s attention.

A guy stood to close his tab at the bar as everyone else, dressed for winter, walked out the first of two sets of doors.

A small group of people broke off the big group and took a look at the jukebox.

They whispered, shaking their heads.

The fourth Dr. Octagon song played: “3000.”

When that song ended we realized how quiet the bar had gotten.

“That was the last one,” Christopher Sly said.

We exited the bar into the same cold Chicago and started walking.

About a block away from the last bar, crossing the street with cars parallel parked on both sides, we got honked at.

A block later we finally talked, walking slightly wobbily.

“Everyone left once Dr. Octagon started,” I said.
“I know,” Christopher Sly said, “they couldn’t take it.”

Of course we cracked up, not really expecting the music to have that effect.

Okay. This is a reminder that I already told Bridget this story so I don’t tell it again.

Herocious is the author, most recently, of the novel “Austin Nights.”
March 26, 2014 8:01 pm

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