I woke up on the couch early. It seemed like only an hour or two since Fibber and her roommate had come in the previous night. I had tried to stay up by reading Sebald but finished the text before they arrived so I blinkingly rested, awakening partially twice as they came in separately, and then a third and complete time when the roommate left at dawn in flip-flops carrying some paperwork. Assuming Fibber would be long in waking I put my shoes on, having slept in my pin-striped slacks and t-shirt, and strolled up Damen. I thought about going back to Atomix but instead, in the name of your continued entertainment, I ventured into Barista Coffee House, Inc.

Depending on your preferences for humor or polite, stimulating conversation, the entertaining portion of the jaunt screeched to a halt. I was skeptical about Barista Coffee House, Inc. from the outside, when I walked by it the previous night on my way home from Atomix. Crossing the threshold did not boost my perceptions. Having carried my new book with me on the walk and hoping to find an arm chair and some morning sunlight I immediately made the decision to get my coffee to go. As if the gate keepers at some kind of mythological temple, two guys flanked the doorway inside speaking at volumes presumably left over from a club or motorcycle ride the night before, about how sexy a woman’s big, round ass was, about how ‘when that thang moves, everybody moves,’ and how much they wanted ‘one of those.’

Beyond the point of no return, I broke off a coffee nonetheless, in a styrofoam cup, from the pleasant Barista, Inc. who called me baby or sweetie which was really endearing but spoiled by the still embarrassing and assaulting conversation that guarded the door. I left a tip, swallowed to seal my ears, looked at the ground, and darted out the door, and drank the elixir while reading Sam Shepard’s ‘Motel Chronicles’ in its entirety before Fibber awoke.

Now, I am not a prude, and my conversations include no less discussion of the male or female anatomy, I merely prefer a bit more well-crafted, subtle, and transformative treatment of human sexuality, rather than the sad and reductive ‘I’m an ass-man’ sort of bluster that the b’hoys at Barista Coffee House, Inc. were crowing. Also not one to limit expression, they can say whatever they want, I’m sure it isn’t going to help them score with the Barista, Inc. Maybe they could have just used their inside voices. I lament that I won’t ever know how well it played out for them.

The mood/atmosphere is that of any coffee house which resides in a college/university neighborhood… quiet. This stillness is somewhat hard to achieve when walking up the creaky stairs, to sit in a pew and then sip the fresh not too tarish coffee. You might get a stare or two if your voice is one that carries.

To authenticate the experience (in the winter), prop yourself in front of the fireplace in a nook toward the back of 2nd floor lounge. The art that occupies the walls is somewhat inconsistent. Once they had beautiful hand knit scarves, hats, and mittens on display and for sale. This time was some sophomoric photographer from Depaul, and her trip to the Latin world.

Every time that I have been to the Bourgeois Pig, I have felt cozy at home and comfortable. However I would never be able to study here, as I often grimace in hearing existential/philosophical debates in hushed tones buzzing around at all times, so headphones might be a necessity to those who find inane banter bothersome.

you enter a chamber containing a scepter, a tiara covered with baubles, and a suit of studded leather armour. something tells me it was left by someone of high standing, possibly, Storm.

there is not much that can parallel the entertainment i get from eavesdropping on coffeeshop rpgs (role playing games!). i would much rather listen to a stereotypical bimonscificon dm (dungeonmaster) lay out, in a staccato pace that allows phe to construct the flimsy narrative as phe goes along, a potboiler of a fantasy scenario in a nasally, wheezy voice, whilst accepting cues and decisions on the fate of the characters from their player(s) than see some twerp (or adult) reading harry potter or see the lord of the rings films gross enough green to purchase arkansas. even if it is weak, tired, and tedious, the look of satisfaction they get from hashing through it themselves and cultivating ownership over their fantasies is fruit enough for me.

such was the discovery of this little shop in northern chicago, possibly evanston, so i thought. we had passed it an evening or two before when trying to discover ourselves a place to sup, the name of course, as they so often do, planted an associational seed in my head that crept, over the next days in the city, into desire bordering on missionary, to imbibe at the curious place. after packing all of our things for the drive back to atlanta, via dry ridge, kentucky, we headed to ennui for a morning beverage, some air to last us through the car ride, and as it happened, our only cafe experience in chicago. it was a very comfortable place, perhaps a bit spacious for my liking, broad picture windows wrapped around its corner position; it could have been a shop or showroom at some point. we drank outdoors, at a patio table, surrounded by dogs (oh! he isn’t usually like that!)(like what? a dog?), and the aforementioned gamers. not that ennui was ‘weak, tired, and tedious,’ it was quite pleasant, but it was somehow merely occurring. it was not an overly stylized place, nor was it overly bland, its presentation was stuttered out, its clientele ad hoc. like so many other shops, its name delivered a prompt on the feeling you just could not put your finger on about the place. although a worthy shop, and completely admirable and inspiring and warm, the sun that day and the empty quality of the space, all floating out the windows above the lowered seating area, just left me with a listless yet lucid attentiveness for my own feelings and desires.

but as i feel the definition of the word implies, i take ownership of my ennui. it was not one of dissatisfaction, but one of watching the world cycle past, being out of my element. the narrative of the gamers gave pause to my spaceout, in which i was able to see, against the streetscape giving way to a starbucks one block up sheridan, the satisfaction, of the independent creation that was ennui, that was the gamers’ interactive story, and in my choice to enjoy my morning there.