I live in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood. I like it, but pretty much only for the convenience of the location. I’m not a heavy bar-goer, but it is close to my job, and it’s close to my improv.
I’m not a fan of, say, the puddles of vomit, complete with chunks of mystery dinner, that dot the sidewalks on Saturday or Sunday mornings. And I’m not a fan of the bar crowds that spill onto the street, or the occasional sounds of drunken all-bar singalongs to Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” (which, if you didn’t know, sounds poorly when thus rendered). I really don’t love the people at all. But, on the whole, the worst part of it is pretty easy to avoid — I’m a good half block off one of the main streets, which is enough buffer to avoid the drunkenness unless I intentionally go there.
But still, in very small doses the odd frat-boy and Trixie type can be amusing. So, every so often, I’ll share these brief True Lincoln Park Tales. (More like quotes, really, but you know how it goes.)
Today, I came across a group of frat boys. How frat-boy were they? One of them wore a T-shirt proclaiming this the “Day of the Dong.”
Another announces: “You know? I do feel like we’re in Entourage.”