This place doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up. That's okay, I guess, it's still a baby. And when you ask my three year old nephew what he wants to be when he grows up, he proudly replies "A hotel manager!" Then we all laugh nervously and everyone's wondering if there's a children's book called "Don't Be a Total Failure, Little Pumpkin!" about a pumpkin who wants to be a hotel manager but decides to do something meaningful instead. Like be on an exercise DVD or something.
I don't think it's a cultural thing. I don't mind there being a nice mix of people wherever I go. True, the greased-back ponytailed Hispanic gangster dudes in Miami Vice suits were a little off-putting, as well as the adolescent skanks on their arms in Snooki-style no-panty dresses that were about as long as rubber bands are wide, and ten times as stretchy. I mean, you see that in a bar that's playing Foster the People in the background and you just go, ah-buhhh? But I really don't care. If you WANT to be mixed in with this much hipster stank and backwards caps, that's your mess, homeskillet.
We got seats at the bar, but they were totally fairly procured. We didn't jack anybody or do a sideswoop, we asked the bartender if they were open, and she said they were. We looked around to see if anyone else had laid claim, but there was no one. And we only took three of the five open seats. About two minutes later I felt the evil eye creeping up and down me, and what do you know? Apparently we had offended a little box of shiny new douche nozzles who felt they were owed enough seats for their entire party to sit down. And maybe they did--they had traveled ALL the WAY from Lincoln Park to this dangerous neighborhood with the good farmer's market and the whiskey bar that was in Esquire. Anyway, they did what douche does when it feels slighted, and made loud comments about how stuff wasn't fair and this neighborhood sucks anyway and everyone is probably gay and also fat and ugly. The girls did that high school thing where they stare down your noses at you and make fun of your dress under their breath until you go cry in the bathroom but it didn't work on me because I was totally sauced! Also I haven't cried in a high school bathroom for AT LEAST two weeks, okay bitches?
Speaking of bad outfits, though: I hate it when girls wear those stupid hippie chick bands around their heads. Like across their foreheads. Mostly because it looks stupid but also it reminds me of that part in Forrest Gump where Jenny is telling Forrest about her hippie experiences and it flashes back to her doing drugs by a campfire, and I HATE it when Forrest Gump is on TBS because I ALWAYS end up turning on my TV at the very second they show that part, and Robin Wright-Penn-NotPenn looks really stupid at that part. Anyway, there's lots of those girls there. They like the owls. They talk about the owls. Their headbands have owls on them. So do their skirts and necklaces and jackets and shoes and everything else they bought off Etsy. They would shoot an owl and kick it in the face just so they could have owl feathers in their hair, believe. Because they love owls!
Behind us, there was a table of over-served middle-aged men with fancy watches. They were there only to get the occasional crotch shot as the aforementioned Snooki Crew got up from their seats. They were also taking turns trying to fondle their waitress in that disgusting I'm-old-enough-to-be-your-dad-but-if-you-protest-you-won't-get-a-tip kind of way. Because that's classy, see? Beyond that was the Grand Theft Auto: Miami Vice gang, packs of bros who were too excited about nothing and yelling over each other and the music, and a whole slew of awkward looking people who were just hovering around waiting for their OKCupid date to show up.
If you've read my other reviews, you can probably surmise that the crowd in an establishment weighs a lot on my perception of the establishment. In this case, I think it was all just too awkward and I won't go back. I wouldn't mind if it was just headband Etsy chicks and OKCupid dudes, but the weird peppering of sports bro's and Lincoln Park cliterati and Viagra Triangle douche trying to score just made the whole experience awkward. I kept wondering if maybe they should turn the lights up a bit...what is it about gentrification that makes me feel so unsafe? I do not know. I just know that when I see groups of chicks in fancy dresses and tall shoes that cost more than my rent stumble up out of the Logan blue line headed to a girls' night at The Telegraph, and rowdy groups of dudes in matching t-shirts on their way to celebrate a bachelor party at Longman, I clutch my purse a bit closer and keep my head down all the way home, where I make sure I have enough canned goods to survive at least through the beginning of the end. read more