Hollaween

Despite it being Halloween and all, nothing really excited happened in Chicago this weekend.

Waited 15 minutes for a cab outside my apartment Friday, which was the longest I’ve ever had to wait for one in my neighborhood yet. I suppose that’s notable. The fact that we were standing with my cousin who was dressed as the Unabomber is notable as well.

Made my first visit to the Suburbs since I’ve moved here on Saturday night and they pretty much exactly what I thought they’d be: Quiet, dull and full of strip malls.

Jesse and I got a ride back to the city later in the night from some friends of the people I knew at the party, which was notable for only two reasons: It was in a brand new Escalade and the two college-aged kids in the front seat (DePaul students) had seemingly been anywhere in Chicago except Lincoln Park and the Northwest suburbs.

When they asked me where I liked to hang out in the city I told them Wicker Park and the Ukranian Village.

“The Ukranian Village? Never heard of that place,” the driver, a thin, high cheek-boned blond who looked every bit of a spoiled private school kid, said.

When we got off 90-94 and I told him that to get to Wicker Park he needed to take a right on North Ave. As he did this he said to his buddy in the next seat, “I’ve never been to the right off the interstate before.” Which would likely mean he’s never once left the near north side of town, and he’d lived in here for at least two years. Remaining that sheltered in a city like this is almost impressive.

To prevent getting pelted by PBR cans while stepping out of the pimped out SUV in the middle of Hipsterville, Jesse (who was hilariously dressed as a sporty Kevin Federline) and I (a mailman) ducked swiftly into Estelle’s and proceeded to get drunk with Dale Earnhardt Jr., a member of the White Stripes and Mike Ditka.