Chicago-Centric

There's a whole 'nother world out there, made up of people who don't know the difference between a hipster and a Trixie, who don't discuss Pitchfork v. Intonation, what's happening at the Cultural Center, or which street festivals they're most looking forward to.

There's a whole 'nother world called the suburbs: a vast urban wasteland lacking a distinct identity, consisting of neither here nor there, town nor city, but a vast urban sprawl stretching dozens of miles of pastel treeless cookie-cutter houses finally petering out into cornfields. The 20-somethings who live there are the sort who think it's appropriate to live with mommy and daddy after college and commute into the city, since after all, they can save money that way and catch up on sleep on the train. And who really wants to go out in Chicago at night, anyway, when beer is so cheap in Downer's Grove/Glen Ellyn/Tinley Park? They can see enough during the daylight, when every day they eat at Corner Bakery. What a cool place! Are they getting one on our town soon? Did you hear we have a Potbelly's now, out in the strip mall? Yeah, I might drive over there after I go to Oakbrook on Saturday. Or maybe I'll just eat a pretzel there. They're so good.


Friday, some college friends and I went to the suburb of Elgin to see my old roommate perform in community theatre. With no better options in sight, we headed to the local sports bar, a huge shed filled with the aforementioned suburbanites.

Oh. my. god. I felt like a gay man in a straight bar, that's how out of place we were. Here I was, rocking my black skirt and Buddy Holly-style glasses, while my friends wore nice trousers and cool tailored jackets. Surrounding us were drunken louts sporting brand-new t-shirts emblazoned with phrases such as 'Overworked & Underfucked' and 'Friends don't let friends have mullets.' I stared around the room in horrified amazement. At the baseball hats, at the obesity, at the women with bangs (bangs!) and tapered pants.

There's nothing worse than a suburban bar, I've decided, since they think they're cool by association. Hell, our bar's name was "The Streets of Chicago." Chicago my ass! I live on the street (well, avenue) of Chicago IN Chicago, damnit, not them! Let's call it what it is, a tasteless suburban bar, and leave it at that.

Lest you, dear reader, accuse me of too much vitriol, let me assure you: I'm not always going to chi-chi nightclubs and lounges. While I much prefer pubs, I have occassionally gone to dives like Carol's Pub, Old Town Ale House, and even on one memorable date, the Polish Zakopane on Division Street. Their lack of pretention is refreshingly honest--and was completely lacking at Elgin's The Streets of Chicago.

The only thing I really learned on Friday was that Canadians can be just as white-trashy as us Yanks. There was an entire slo-pitch softball team bashing away at a boxing game, cheering one another when their punch speed was clocked each time they smacked a punching bag. One amazing example of feminity was built like a brick shithouse and sported a sprightly cowboy hat she'd constructed out of beer boxes--her artistic flair demonstrated by the jaunty way she rolled the sides of the brim up. Classy!

Yes, I felt superior towards these hapless suburbanites--yet I also wanted to remove them, the huddled masses yearning to be set free, from their dystopia. Surely even they could appreciate John Barleycorn.