So, at 10pm, I dragged myself out to open mike poetry night at this bar called Weeds in search of an indie soulmate. I arrived seven blocks, one rerouted red line stop, and forty five minutes later, sorta pissed off and tired, to see that there were exactly two people in the bar. The first was a large intimating bartender playing pool who looked an awful lot like an older scarier Penn. The second, a short smiling latino guy who made a decent Teller. Not promising.
Two 60+ men then trickled in, as well as a guy I initially mistook for a homeless person hiding from the rain. Still not promising. Worst bar ever.
Things eventually took a turn for the better. As I slowly broke down bartender's surliness with my affable charm, Not-Actually-Homeless-But-Still-Sorta-Looked-It guy struck up a conversation with me and we chattered reasonably interestingly about life and ways to inspire youth through social activism. He then reached into his bag to pull out the binder of of poems he had written.
As the other bar patrons started fiddling with their pens as well, I realized that these people weren't hobos at all. They were sensitive souls and poets, brought together by a mutual love of personal expression and beer. Or at least they were more layered than I gave them credit for upon first harrowing glance. Yes, our heroine learned a valuable lesson on first impressions as she drained her last sip of Old Style, promised NAHBSSLI guy to come back next Sunday and read his favorite poem, and headed out.