On Encountering Literary Types (read: Why I'd Rather Party with Philosophers)

Picture this:

A swank loft in a hip part of Chicago. Industrio-chic whitewashed stone walls with weathered hard wood floors. Italian beers being served to gaggles of literary aficionados and poets who walk around looking severely disinterested yet obviously searching for approval in every corner of the cornerless room. Men in velvet blazers and some in rad, so-old-its-new vintage 80's bomber jackets. Women in skinny jeans (worn under tulle and taffeta frocks, of course). And a few folks in Bad Religion t-shirts. A man performing digital art by sitting at a computer in the center of the room. And oh-so-many tortoise shell framed spectacles.

And one disgruntled philosopher.

This was my Friday night. I got roped into heading uptown and checking out the 60th anniversary party of the Chicago Review, a premier literary publication based at the University of Chicago. So, I gussied up a bit and went off to see how the poets like to party. Pretentiously. Is the answer, apparently. I did have a couple of interesting conversations though. One was about poetics and rhetoric and another was about the need for more Taco Bells in Chicago. Some of the poets who read their work were good and the live band was pretty much the highlight of the evening's programmed activities. I also got to hone some very important skills.

Here's the thing: When I hang out with my philosophy buddies, we go to Jimmy's and get greasy grilled-cheese sandwiches and a pitcher of pumpkin ale. Then we argue our heads off about Marxism. That, somehow, is significantly more satisfying than tottering around posh lofts with people who fancy themselves Writers. Though I guess it makes for a good story (or two, actually. If you want to hear about some of the incredible pick-up lines I heard last night, you're going to have to call me -- I'll need to do voices and accents.).

So, the lesson of this post is: by all means, go forth and party with writers and poets, just make sure you have plans the next day to sit at the dive bar and argue your head off about Marxism.

You know, to restore balance.