Tonight, after enjoying a Japanese dinner with Karinsa, I went to Filter to finish a piece for the next issue of Venus. Filter isn't my favorite coffeeshop in the city (that dubious honor belongs to Atomix) but it's sometimes nice to watch people walking around the six-cornered intersection. Besides, it's busy enough to keep me from noticing every single person who walks through the door.
I was very productive until the dreaded open mic began. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for artistic expression. But there's something about an open mic that feels too... patchouli. I tried to work while a woman belted out a rather vulgar chorus, but it just wasn't happening. So I gathered my belongings and made my way into the cold air. A light snow was falling. I walked up Damen, window-browsing the Lincoln Park boutiques that had moved to Bucktown, and then I paused at the facade of a new restaurant. The name had something to do with death, and their paraphrased slogan was "Our cooking will knock you dead!" I'm not sure that the "eating here will lead to imminent discomfort and death" marketing plan is a sound one. People don't like culinary homicide.
Also today, I had to have a professional conversation with a man wearing one of those matchy-matchy velour sweatsuits. It is difficult to take a man seriously when he is swathed in a fuzzy cotton-poly blend, when his package is evident and lumpy, or when he has just popped a green apple Blow-Pop into his mouth.
All I want to do is listen to Indian Summer, read, and eat angel hair pasta.
I was very productive until the dreaded open mic began. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for artistic expression. But there's something about an open mic that feels too... patchouli. I tried to work while a woman belted out a rather vulgar chorus, but it just wasn't happening. So I gathered my belongings and made my way into the cold air. A light snow was falling. I walked up Damen, window-browsing the Lincoln Park boutiques that had moved to Bucktown, and then I paused at the facade of a new restaurant. The name had something to do with death, and their paraphrased slogan was "Our cooking will knock you dead!" I'm not sure that the "eating here will lead to imminent discomfort and death" marketing plan is a sound one. People don't like culinary homicide.
Also today, I had to have a professional conversation with a man wearing one of those matchy-matchy velour sweatsuits. It is difficult to take a man seriously when he is swathed in a fuzzy cotton-poly blend, when his package is evident and lumpy, or when he has just popped a green apple Blow-Pop into his mouth.
All I want to do is listen to Indian Summer, read, and eat angel hair pasta.
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