B-I-N-G...Oh!

Although it wasn't my first Bingo night experience at this hipster hangout in Humboldt Park (that masquerades as a seedy dive bar), it was my first win. The Monday night Bingo racket draws an unusually large number of clean-cut Chicago Public School teachers (including the friend who invited me) in addition to the usual hipsters that frequent the joint (a moody, oddly dressed bunch, identifiable largely by their distinct [albeit androgynous] hair and clothing styles); it's a strange mix.

There's no cover charge, and no fee for the Bingo cards. The callers share a name (it's something common, like Dave or Jim) and infuse some improvisation and off-color jokes into their Bingo calling shtick, turning an activity that is traditionally geared toward a more geriatric crowd into something of a sketch comedy routine. Gone are the ink-filled daubers of old, and instead of troll dolls, PBR cans line the tables above players' Bingo cards.

Because no money changes hands, there is no monetary prize for the winners. To compensate, the Daves (or whoever) have gotten a little more ... umm ... creative with their prize packages. My friend proudly displays a coloring book page on his fridge that he won earlier in the year--it's some Disney prince with a generously sized phallus added to his person in an otherwise G-rated scene-- and the page is autographed by one of the Daves. Other prizes I've seen include: little plastic army guys, a half-completed Sunday crossword, noise makers, and other random junk. I'm not a hipster myself, so maybe I just don't get the humor, but it was all in good fun, or so it seemed.

It was the last game of the night, a round of "Hippie Bingo" (the only spaces in play were "B" and "O") and I found myself caught up in the middle of a three-way win. As is customary for all their winners, I had to come up on "stage" and answer a few random questions. Since there were three of us, they thought it would be a great idea to subject us to a "dance off" a la Soul Train, to determine who would get their "grand prize" for the evening. Feeling like an idiot, but agreeing to play along, I shimmied my way across the stage. They must have liked my impromptu dance moves, because they deemed me the winner!

What did I win, you ask? Well, it's pictured above. They gave me a bourbon-soaked copy of Alcoholic's Anonymous. Again, I don't quite get hipsters, but I really think it crossed that fine line between offbeat humor and plain old bad taste. I smiled wanly as they continued their little show, and returned to sit with my friend at the bar, who was beaming about the attention the Daves had lavished upon me. I left that night scratching my head; why would anyone find that funny? Ironic, sure, but inappropriate nonetheless. It went directly into the Goodwill pile.

So hipsters, I've decided that you can keep your Bingo-calling Daves and your phallic coloring-book pages and your cheap, nasty beer in a can. If and when I do play Bingo, I'll take the troll dolls and superstitious blue-haired ladies over tasteless humor any day. And should I have to drink PBR again, I'd prefer it in a bottle, thank you very much.