Minutes (Chicago)

July 3, 2009

posted by Caroline Picard


  • Yesterday evening: I went to see the new shiny-corporate-faux organic supermarket in Lincoln Park. I went to buy fish for dinner. And I went to see. At this supermarket they have three bars: a beer bar with beer on tap, a wine bar and a gambucha bar. There are multiple dining areas in addition, and I saw a few newly-married pushing a cart around the store, he with a frothy pint and she with a glass of white wine. / I happened to ask a store attendant where the tortiallas were. He did not know so he asked another attendant. This second employee handed the first an opened box. “This is for you,” the second employee said. ” / “What is it?” asked the first. / “Call it a customer sample,” replied the second. “I found it on a shelf back in in aisle 12.” / The box, white and purple, had been opened. Two pills had been taken out of the interior packaging. I thought it might have been aspirin of some kind. The first employee explained, however, that it was a homeopathic remedy for PMS. Indeed PMS was printed in purple on the cover of the box.
  • The gutter punk with the rotweiler dog and the expenisive chrome backpack and the stench that defines the boundaries of his psychic property–it’s like walking into a wall of his pheromones, differing curiously from the stench of a hobo; in addition to abusing passers-by with various cheeky insults (i.e. “Give me some fucking money bitch face fatty fag,” he also has a sign made with sharpie marker on dirty cardboard. The letters skinny and querelous. “FEED ME I’VE GOT SCABIES. LOST MY RIDE.”
  • On The Beach at Bryn Mawr: A group of three old dudes listening to “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” soundtrack on a shitty little portable radio. They are setting up a fence line of bright orange and camo fabric. They say it’s essential to keep off the sand. “This sand is a bitch,” Fredo, the organizer says. Sandy, his friend looks a little older and he maintains the goofy expression of a jowly labrador with its head out of a driving car. In other words, Sandy says little and looks happy. Upon the completion of said barricade (they construct it like a semi-circle around their area, because we have an adjacent property we reap the benefits of the wind relief), Fredo and Sandy reveal their bathing suits. Very very small thongs. These men are very very tan. They are brown and Fredo is beautiful. He struts around with a tiny little leopard skin pouch around his penis. He struts around as someone who has seduced countless young men. His skin looks old and European and he wears sunglasses. Sandy is also wearing a thong. But he doesn’t strut, he just sits on his beach blanket staring into the wind. Two young men sit on a beach towel smoking pot. They are in their twenties. They are giggling. Don’t Cry For Me Argentina is still playing. Behind the barricade, Sandy undresses entirely. Because of the temporary wall, the lifeguard can’t see him. And neither can Fredo who, with his short bleach bond buzz cut, is swimming in the lake, admiring the many men on the beach.

One Response to “Minutes (Chicago)”

  1. Moshe Says:

    July 4th Weekend: no San Francisco Minutes today.

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