Is that all there is?

Saturday night I went to a fancy Latin-fusion restaurant in the South Loop, in what turned out to be Chinatown, just a short walk in fancy clothes past the Jamaican dealers hanging in front of the Hilliard Homes Housing Project. The young lady who got me into this mess called as I walked, confidently, through their action. "Is the block hot?!" she yelled. Yes, indeed. Walking through industrial decay to drop $70 on a meatless entree and stupid Cuban drink is not hot, however, and why would I do such a thing? I feel it is my duty, in Chicago, to take everyone up on each social opportunity. Enough of this pseudo-slumming all the time, I thought. I am nearly 30, and I am a young professional, and I should go to Something-fusion restaurants in emerging parts of the city.

Why am I so stupid all the time? I have no palate and this is not the time to develop one. I don't know why I can't remember this: if you have to take public transportation to a restaurant you can only afford because of the Earned Income Credit in your tax return, then maybe you are going to the wrong restaurant. Another example: at this fancy place I spoke with someone who had been to a real live sex party. The whole thing was like a Russian matrushka doll; the sex party had been much seedier and sadder than my informant had expected. We talked about the sex party while sipping fancy drinks in a scene that looked pleasant enough but was much sillier and flatter than I had expected. At the core of the evening's matrushka is a tiny doll holding some kind of warm, flat disk...what is that? It's a Crunch Wrap Supreme from Taco Bell, beans no meat. Give me that taco, kokalajan, I'll trade you for this mango picante ceviche remoillade.

The evening continued with a ride in a BMW to the newest, hottest lounge, which was deemed not hot when we arrived, at which point I requested a drop at the Blue Line.

Here was the highlight of my evening, sad as it is: my ten minutes on the Lullaby Express. The final car had four homeless people along the right side windows, one every other row, in their multiple puffy layers and moon boots and complete surrender to sleep. They snored in unison. Faces buried in their coats, they resembled plush toys. This is what we feared would happen to our Care Bears when we grew tired of them and threw them out: our loyal friends were left to the cruel world of abuse and trampling and trying to sleep on public transportation. On the off chance that every bit of our joy and comfort is part of a mystical aggregate, I used the Lullaby Express' calm melancholy to beam great swells of love to their tummies.

And then off to see the same friends I see every weekend, the ones who live three blocks away, at the same place we always go to, even when we say we won't. Beaming love to tummies all the way, and for that I thank you, Lullaby Express.