Some time ago, we went into a downtown restaurant after a particularly grueling business meeting. Ordered a Manhattan, drank it fast, ordered another. Could have kept going, but the bartender came over and asked, with slightly sorry eyes and a lifted eyebrow, “Another?” At that point, we realized we were drinking too fast, recklessly. We might have chosen to been put off by the bartender’s service, which could have been interpreted as “bad,” because servers are not supposed to make customers feel guilty, right? Still, he made a valid, unspoken point. “No,” we responded. “No, thanks.” This mildly judgmental service was, in retrospect, some of the best service we’ve ever received.
Audience Choice: “The gentleman who wanted to talk about the time he woke up still drunk with an animal in his bed, which he faintly remembers having sex with. My date brings it up every once in a while, saying that I should have complained, while I personally think that its a better story that we just stared blankly.”
Other audience comments that caught our attention: “Asked for an interesting wine at avec, was offered ‘a real whore in a bottle.’ Best tasting notes ever.”
Fear on LSD: Based on a “Terrifying” True Story “Newcity,” I tell my wife as we turn northbound onto Jean-Baptiste Pointe DuSable Lake Shore Drive, “is doing a special issue on fear.” “Oh,” she says, “that’s right up your dark alley. You’re afraid of everything.”
What Cuts At My Soul: James Elder’s Story of Mama Lizzie I met James Elder in the early 1980s when he was a creative writing student at Columbia College Chicago, who was well known as a gifted writer. Many years later, in the middle of my first interview I stumbled across his story of Mama Lizzie.
