An Elton John look-alike plays piano beneath a pink spotlight in the middle of a Wrigleyville apartment-building courtyard. Donning a white boa, platform heels, and blinking sunglasses, he busts into a spot-on rendition of “Bennie and the Jets.” A flapper and a vampire roam the grounds, chatting with corpses and taking selfies. Lured by the spectacle a group of drunken Cubs fans stumble toward the apartment’s entrance, woo-wooing in the neighborhood’s native tongue. The man stationed at the door narrows his eyes, effectively denying them access to the party. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” one of them says as the sporty pack retreats into the shadows.
“It takes people, like, two hours to figure out where they came in the front door,” Hopkins says. “It’s kind of fun. Although it’s not as fun when people can’t find the bar.”
