At an internet cafe in Chicago Mayor, Richard M. Daley. A few doors down from Quimby’s and its Chris Ware designed sign. Things is good. I like the el, we’re on good enough terms that I can call it el instead of “el”.
I walked around yesterday and what did I think of? Perfect Strangers, of course. I ended up down near the Magnificent Mile where there are all these jazz clubs. And I looked at the people and noticed how “well” they were dressed. In Seattle I rarely feel the need to dress up, even when I go to fairly upscale places. I just make sure my shirt tag is tucked in and I’m not even given a second glance.
I dress up for job interviews and I packed those interview clothes to wear at the wedding. I imagine that real people wear different clothes to job interviews then they do to weddings. Not me, I guess. I noticed recently that my interview clothes are the type of clothes that my dad regularly wears. I don’t know what that means.
At Quimby’s I picked up a bunch of zines that I know little about.
Another good place is Local Grind, a coffee shop. Go there, okay?
Chicago has its own flag. In the past when I’ve seen the Chicago flag out of context, I thought it was Israel’s flag. Chicago also has copies of The Onion in the piles of free papers.
I was talking to someone while waiting for a computer to become available and watching CNN with the sound off. I was explaining how I’d been sitting somewhere and the Space Needle in my field of vision when an airplane flew by off in the distance. As, from my point of view, the plane passed behind the Space Needle, I impulsively imagined the plane exploding against it. Only instead of saying Space Needle, I just said it was “a building”. I’m not sure why.
Then he explained that he was walking in the western loop, “You know, where all those old warehouses are?” I didn’t really know where the warehouses are, but I nodded my head again. I do know where the loop is and (when the sun is setting) I know which direction is west, so it wasn’t much of a fib. So a few nights ago, he was walking in the western side of the loop. He saw a shooting star and instinctively thought it was a missle.
Go anywhere Pinkwaterish, do anything Pinkwaterish, see anything Pinkwaterish– or should one reserve the touristic Pinkwaterish experiences for Hoboken?
I didn’t think of that. I should’ve gone to Clark Street to spot some kids snarking out.
On one subject, a native Chicagoan had a differing view than Pinkwater. He talked New York pizza down, saying that the crust is so weak and it’s so dripping with cheese that that New Yorkers are forced to fold it over.