Last weekend was spent at Lollapalooza, working in Tent #19, taking money and handing out beers to crazy, sweaty drunks — most of whom were nice enough until the end of the night when they kept asking for everything we’d just told them we sold out of. People who’ve been standing for ninety minutes in front of apartment-sized amplifiers don’t seem to hear very well.
One of the madmen working hard behinds the scenes was Noah, a high school teacher and bartender at Gannon’s Pub in Chicago.
We started talking about the two major bummers of this year’s Lolla: several truly crappy bands on the Bud Light stage and the fact that we working the beer tents weren’t allowed to drink any product. None of us couldn’t figure that one out. We’d done it in the past with the full understanding that if we got ripped, we got sent home for good. So this year’s dictum came as a very hot and unpleasant surprise.
Three o’clock Saturday afternoon,too sober and too depressed to stand, I went and sat in a barrel full of ice water and cold cans of beer I couldn’t drink, and started dreaming about a Continental Shelf. I must have been talking in my sleep because Noah asked what the hell I was jabbering about. So I told him. Then he wanted one, too. So did Big Tim. It was contagious. And it was then that Noah swore he’d start mixing them at Gannon’s.
The next time you’re out on the town and looking for a tasty beverage, head over to Gannon’s and look for Noah. Give him the nod, ask him to shake you up a Continental Shelf, and tip him well. He’ll know what it’s all about.