Body art as a body of art…read what I had to say about it here:

http://art.newcity.com/2009/09/14/review-freaks-flashintuit-center-for-intuitive-and-outsider-art/#more-3904

On a bus going downtown on Saturday, I looked around to find that there was no “proper” attire for the weather.  It was one of those uncannily perfect days in Chicago, where the meteorological conditions could be best described as ‘temperature neutral.’ 

[While even mentioning the weather in written word makes me embarrassed for myself (after all, I loathe facebook status updates pertaining to weather conditions), I hope you’ll stick with me…I have a point.] 

True to my (lack of) style, I was sporting shorts and a solid-colored tee (I mean, what other kind is there, really?).  Meanwhile, I looked around to see others were clad in every imaginable combination of shoe, sandal, short, pant, sleeve and sleeveless.  There was even a scarf in the mix, but it looked light weight, so I’m pretty sure it wasn’t for utility.  I realized that the temperature neutrality of this beautiful Fall day had, in garment form, personified one of those “how many combinations are possible” questions from Math Analysis class in high school.  I should send an email to Miss Keenan and let her know that math really is useful…or would be if I were on the CTA-version of Cash Cab in that moment. 

Should the weather conditions have been any different on Saturday, there would have been a large percentage of that bus completely under- or over-dressed for the day ahead.  It reminded me of San Francisco in the summer, when tourists arrive in tank tops, thinking, “California in July…yeah!” only to realize that the average July temperature on the peninsula is around 68 degrees.  Tourists often look cold. 

But this day was different.  There was no inappropriate attire for the weather.  It was temperature neutral, after all.  The playing field was leveled.  All garment types were fair game.

That’s when it dawned on me:  Temperature neutrality is like religious freedom.

When given freedom, people will disperse into all possible directions.  Sweaters, Buddhism, whatever…  Diversity is natural when personal preference is allotted.  Riders on the #146 Inner Drive/Michigan Express peacefully coexisted despite their fashionable divisions.  My summer attire meshed seamlessly with my neighbor’s Fall outerwear.  When the temperature is neutral, all is fair in God and garb.

As the bus made its way down Lake Shore Drive, I started to think about how clothing choices, unlike their religious counterparts, don’t start wars.  And—with the exception of my bestie, Jenny’s ravenous approach towards Loehman’s—people don’t tend to seek mass casualties in the name of fashion designers.  These distinct differences did more than upset me.  They made my entire comparison start to fall apart. 

Looking out the bus window at the sparkling lake and sailboats therein, I decided to stop thinking so much about the weather and simply enjoy it. No need to make a grandiose statement about the rare luxury of a day where wardrobe choice is free from meteorological considerations.  After all, if temperature neutrality were at all like religious freedom, Chicago would be home to state-sponsored religious terrorism, no doubt.

Margaritas are like painting a bathroom yellow.  Both sound impossible to mess up, but are actually damn-near the most impossible things to get right.  Based on the narrow success rates of both, SWAT team snipers actually train as both bartenders and interior painters before ever firing a weapon.  True story.

First of all, let me say how much I love margaritas.  I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned that at least four times in the recent past, but still—it’s worth reiterating.  One issue in particular, though, makes it really hard for me to just enjoy any margarita. 

Having worked in bars for…well…too long, I can spot a farce of a margie when I see one.  The give-away?  Yellow.  Margaritas—like most bathroom walls—just shouldn’t be yellow.  Especially not the neon yellow of my windbreaker from 4th grade (the half-zip pullover one with a large snap-button pocket on the front, should you remember).  Besides having something radioactive about it, that color incriminates the cocktail as tainted with sweet & sour mix, the kryptonite of modern mixology.  In my bartending heyday, I always knew to ask for I.D. when someone ordered an amaretto sour or a whiskey sour.  Said mixer is the training wheels of drinking and I have no time for amateur hour. 

But I digress.  Margaritas should be white.  Not in a cross-burning way, but in a lime juice is a cloudy white color way.  So, too, should be my cool, refreshing cocktail.  No salt.  On the rocks, obviously.  No yellow belly about it. 

Just last weekend I was sipping some examples (notice the plural) of such finely crafted a margarita when they started flowing right through me.   Navigating my way through the rear of the restaurant towards the restrooms, I found myself amidst an obstacle course of an unlikely kind.  Boxes.  Cans.  Large cans.  More boxes.  In a moment of tequila-based confusion, I thought that I had stumbled into the restaurant’s dry goods pantry.  I’m still not convinced that I didn’t.  But this was a hallway that led to the bathroom.  In a restaurant.  With margaritas.  And boxes of tortilla chips and industrial-sized cans of black beans in the hallway.  Where customers walk.  In no condition to ask questions, I went with it.  And I went (potty). 

With my bladder successfully prepared for a refill, I traced my steps out of the restroom with less urgency.  This gave me the ability to really see my surroundings.  The back (but not-so-private) chambers of this restaurant looked like an aisle of Restaurant Depot, the hyper-industrial-sized version of Costco that only allows food and beverage business owners to shop there.  It’s like Sam’s Club on steroids and ranks third on my list of possible locations where Natalie Halloway may be lost.  It’s that big. 

Even in my white margarita fog, I could identify that such storage practices—essentially allowing customers to play leapfrog with dry goods—are not normal.  In fact, I have only seen such disregard for ambiance once before, in another Mexican restaurant that served—in addition to burritos and tostadas—hamburgers.  Yes, hamburgers.  There, you enter the bowels of the restaurant through a particle board door, walk through a jack-and-jill mop closet to find a bathroom that likely birthed H1N1.  And you thought it was from pigs…

As large a faux pas as allowing your customers to mingle with restaurant supplies is, there is nonetheless a part of me that appreciates it.  More than knowing what type of frying oil they use and what brand of canned tomatoes makes the best salsa, I sympathize with the associated obliviousness and blatant disregard for industry norms.  I also respect the ballsy-ness inherent in laying all your cards on the table.  There is no smoke and mirrors (and, often, no paper towels) in Chicago’s budget Mexican restaurants.  Not only is what you see what you get; you’re obviously getting what you’re seeing.  With that in mind, it is no one’s fault but your own if you indulge in it a) before 1am or b) sober.  We are all very well acquainted with those caveats of personal responsibility, after all.

Perhaps I’m making excuses for poor business practices, but a good margarita is hard to find.  If looking past the need to trudge through an obstacle course of aluminum and cardboard equates a fresh lime juice cocktail, so be it.  Paint me evolved, but I’ve reached that point where solid rewards are worth every ounce of awkwardness and inconvenience…just don’t paint me yellow, as it’s a damn-near impossible color to get right.