WELCOME TO MY SECRET MEAT PALACE.

Whoo boy! Lobby's! Have you heard of it? Yeah, me neither. But there it is...and here I am. This is going to be delicious.

Not sure where I first heard of this place, but I think I must have googled it after continuosly driving by a place called "Lobby's." Wasn't it a hobby shop? A long, empty lobby? I had to find out...and finded out I did!

Judging from the storefront, you know what you're getting into. Well, besides a triple-bypass. From reading my findings through extensive googles searches, this is a Chicago style joint specializing in...you guessed it: the worst foods on earth!

You're entering a meat paradise! A hot dog heaven! A cheesesteak hullabaloo!

But before I go on, I must get this off of my chest:

I wouldn't call myself a "foody," but my blog has certainly been painting me as one in the last few months. I just really like to eat. I enjoy putting new things in my mouth (hey, watch the dirty humor, buddy, watch it...) trying weird flavors and consuming as many animals still left in the Kingdom. I've been told I should sign up for yelp or urbanspoon, where I can review restaraunts and greasy diners in all the well categorized/organized glory I can handle, but naw. I'd rather do it here. Ya see, I don't ever wanna be a "foody." I hate the bougie way people describe wine, I shiver when someone makes a pile of oysters seems like a nerve-shattering orgasm. Granted, oysters are absolutely delightful, but you don't need to close your eyes, delicately moan and then buck in your chair as soon as it hits your tongue. It's food. Sexy, sexy food. Where was I again?

Oh yeah! HOT DOGS!

I walked in, scanned the area and made my decision -- "I will eat here," I told myself.

"I will bust my gut," I promised to the Gorge Gods*.

"And I will enjoy it," I dramatically whispered as a closer.

Along with everything from hamburgers, cheesesteaks, bratwursts and the you-always-gotta-have-'em-everywhere-you-go french fries, they serve hot dogs. I've never been to Ted's, I have no idea what a Wienerschnitzel looks like on the inside and aside from ballgames and American holidays, I rarely eat the damn things. You can cover them in chili and drench 'em in ketchup, but it's never right with me. It doesn't appease and delight me the way it should. Why? 'Cause it ain't Chicago style.

Yeah, I'm sure you can get them anywhere (probably the above mentioned fast food spots) but fuck, there needs to be some drama for yo mama in here. But the only other place...the only other legit place I can find Chicago styled hotdogs is in a little shop next to a venue we play at in Flagstaff, AZ and in...well, Chicago. I'm uncertain on the origins of the glowing-green relish and the giant slice of pickle just thrown on top of it in what I wanna assume is lazy anger, but I absolutely love it and wouldn't have it any other way. I could have picked anything, but I chose you, Hotdogemon.

And it was great! Cheap, too. Like, 2 bucks and change for one. Recommended.

Okay, out of respect for not looking like a fat slob on brightly lit stages, two dogs is my general limit, and was set in place during this week's adventure. But I totally would NOT mind another one for the road. But hey, don't worry, I'll be seeing them again in two hours time.

The place ain't too shabby, I mean, it's not gonna win any awards but c'mon, their biggest selling point is a giant slab of greasy beef. The dude seen above was totally going to town on the Italian sub, I think, and seemed to be enjoying it. It was my second choice, but I'll spiritually and vicariously live through him and his feeding. He sat alone and in total silence -- you could almost hear his delicate, poignant chewing. Really kinda creepy, once you think about it, but once he was done and throwing away his papery remnants, he offered the most amazing bit of clarity and calm in this wacky, upside-down world we live in.

The lady behind the counter asked, "How was it?" in reference to his meal, and without missing a beat, he goes, "Ahh, it was alright." Nothing seemed more honest and perfect in all of restaraunt dining critiques. Not too brash, definitely not an opinion hidden behind niceties, just right there and in the open, take it or leave it. I certainly took it. And laughed.

*"Gorge Gods" is a term I just came up with for this bit. It's ridiculous, but "gorge" and "gorging" has been a pretty hilarious term for me and my siblings while growing up. In the early days, our parents used to take us out to the Old Country Buffet, an excercise in overconsumption and angry accusations of being a puss and not eating enough. We used to laugh at others eating like pigs, at us eating like pigs and the general insanity of seventy-five people going nuts over crab legs and buckets of ranch dressing. They even had a giant machine that dispensed milk chocolate! Fuckin' aye.

Anyway, we always used to joke about us being a group of bloated-belly maniacs, never giving up and never leaving a plate of food full. This was before we were aware of the other weirdos in the world who had the same idea and got into competetive eating, but we were a crew, a posse, a TEAM. We even had idea's for a team jacket, with a picture of a deep, cavernous hole. Ya know, a gorge. We were Team fucking Gorge.

Just thought ya should know.

Oh, the bathroom at the bar across the street. Thought it was funny. Ha.