Every year comes a time when I don't find the time to go to the Loop or by the lakeshore and that time is upon us. The Taste of Chicago has reared its ugly head again and I'm staying away. I can understand the appeal for tourists. Somehow, despite the murder rate rising, the number of tourists is rising. I can see the t-shirts now: "I got murdered in Chicago and all I got was this stupid t-shirt".
Also, have you seen other people eat? It is gross, trust me, I'm not saying watching me eat is any prize but the lip smacking and finger licking that runs rampant at the Taste should be a crime. How many times do you need to lick that sauce off your fingers until it is actually gone?
I don't actually remember the last time I went. It was most likely in my early twenties when I did not understand the economics of spending far more on food tickets then I would if I just bought the food at the restaurant, inside and away from sweaty and smelly other people. You know what I'm talking about. The people who should invest in a good bar soap and deodorant.
Speaking of which, I have an admittedly irrational fear of getting other people's sweat on me. Just the thought of it creeps me out. I sweat too much on my own. Then add on the uncomfortable unknown of who else has rubbed sweat off on you and now that thought travels the spectrum of your mind as you try to enjoy that overpriced pizza.
There was an uproar a few years back when it was announced that there would no longer be fireworks at the taste. Why? Isn't there a plethora of other places to see them? I'm not bragging but I put on a pretty amazing display of sparklers and ash snakes set to the musical styling a of the Spice Girls that will leave you crying in awe.
It is my personal choice to go or not. I just don't get it. When I was younger I was willing to do anything with my friends. Oh who am I kidding I would probably go if a group of my rad friends were going. I just would prefer to avoid it. You can find me hiding out in the suburbs in the land of quiet and slow drivers.
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