Clarificatio Troiensis

[muckefuck]

My plans for last night kinda fell apart. Fortunately, niemandsrose doesn't mind being second choice. In fact, she'll walk miles for the privilege, apparently. Over dinner at Turkish Cuisine and Bakery, she relayed some of what febrile (have a I name-checked you enough today, buddy?) had related to her about my existence as a Fag in the Sticks. Sadly, it fared badly in this little game of telephone.

First, let me say that althought I lived in a small town, I was not of a small town, nor from it. I was born in a mighty metropolis on the Eastern Seaboard. It wouldn't've have been "exile" if I hadn't know the Garden of Paradise that is urban living. By the time I came out, we were all living in the city again. My high school years were spent in a surburban college prep school where I boarded until my mom got an apartment for the four of her children. I knew enough about gays from the media to know I was far from the only one and I only identified myself as such after long talks with my Best Gay Friend in high school. He introduced me to Downtown and Midtown bars, the clerical sexual abuse at our school, Ethan Mordden and Parting Glances, and porn.

So it wasn't like when I came to Chicago for college I was some hayseed goin' hog wild in the big city or something. Yeah, I went out to North Side bars my first year, but only about as much as I'd gone to CWE the year before. My queer energies were focussed on the glb organisation on campus and its associated coming-out group. In retrospect, I could see how tough it would've been to come out for someone who was raised in Bumblefuck and imbued with the local mindset, since I came into constant conflict with during my years there. But so did my whole family. With the exception of my dad, we were geeky misfits who didn't belong in and couldn't relate to a world of combines and skeet shooting.

It wasn't all hell. I had a pleasant nostalgic conversation with bunj the other night in which we retraced the routes of our tiny town and recalled the quiet, the natural beauty, and the good people we found there. If I couldn't live so close to the park and go walking in the city graveyards from time to time, I'd go straight out of my freakin' mind; I sometimes long to fall asleep again without the constant hum of traffic in my ears. But then I think of a two-hours commute to eat haydari and mücver with a cool Quakery bi-chick and realise I've chosen the better part.

Comments

[snowy-owlet.livejournal.com]

You ate that really good pudding, didn't you, you bastard?

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

Mmmmmm...kazandibi.

But, as I explained to niemandsrose, it's custard or blancmange, not pudding. Jell-O has played havoc with the definitions handed down by our ancestors.

[febrile.livejournal.com]

Apologies for anything lost in translation.

Having grown up in a series of them, I do miss college towns desperately. About 100,000 people, an arts scene, good restaurants, an international population, anarchists in coffee shops, plenty of live music... and, too, fewer crazy people and quieter nights.

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

Nah, it gave me an opportunity to tell stories.

The college town I remained most impressed with is Bloomington, Indiana. It just oozed, "We know we're in KKK Country, that's why we try harder!" Some of the best used music stores anywhere.

[febrile.livejournal.com]

I spent about five years in Bloomington (age 4-9) before Milwaukee before Norman. It's where mom got her Library Science PhD. Outstanding place to be a kid -- lots of hippies, exotic food, and I got to be in an opera when I was eight.

...and, yes, the seed of what has been a lifetime love of college basketball was planted there, too.

[gopower.livejournal.com]

Inspired by this livejournal and a previously missed invitation from Da, I went to Turkish Bakery for the first time on Friday. I was sorely disappointed.

The food was good, though I wish we had come a bit before the bellydancing so I could ask the waitress to identify just what was what on the mixed appetizer tray. The bellydancing itself was unexpected, though entertaining especially since a large, predominently Turkish, it seemed, party in the room joined in. (though this same party did not seem to grasp the concept of a non-smoking section). The bellydancing lost a bit of its luster when the dancer said spoke briefly, revealing an accent more from Berwyn than (insert name of Turkish city rhyming with Berwyn for best effect).

The service, however, was miserable. After an inordinate delay in taking our order, the food arrived quickly enough. But that was the last we saw of our waitress. No stopping by to check if anything was needed, no clearing of empty plates, no asking about dessert. We even had to get up from the table -- twice -- to chase down the check. The place was only two-thirds full on a Friday night, so I didn't see any excuse. I won't be quick to go back.

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

Visiting a Middle Eastern restaurant, IME, sometimes means leaving behind one's westernised notions of service. I usually pay my check at the register in TC&B in order to avoid just this sort of abandonment. I've never had as bad an experience there as you have, but my worse service has been on Friday nights.

If you care about the dancing, you're better off at Arkadash up the street, though I've yet to find a place that offers really first-rate entertainment. And if you care about service, I've had better at A la Turka and Cafe Demir, both on Lincoln. But you probably don't love Turkish food in particular enough to go the extra mile, not with Reza's et al. so nearby.