I was worried that the current weather, which is so discouraging of human contact, had started to cure me of the desire to ever have sex again, but then this New York Times piece about the Chicago singles scene came along and totally finished the job. It’s by Stephanie Rosenbloom, a “veteran solo traveler” who “arrived on a chilly spring evening” to find that, despite the fact that it was raining and windy, the porters at her hotel (the Wit) were still engaged in their paid employment. In fact the staff was all-around pretty friendly, which must be on account of their midwesternness, a quality that, Rosenbloom finds, is productive not only of all this fucking geniality but also go-go dancers. She relates this anecdote, which took place well past midnight:
On a different evening at Roof, this time well past midnight, two go-go dancers twirled like woozy tops, flanking a D.J. who was blasting Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up.” It was more lively than the night I arrived, which suits the space: it’s too sprawling for tête-à-têtes. Still, I later wondered aloud to a man I met why a lounge with fire pits, a 12-foot-wide HDTV monitor, and million-dollar views felt it also needed to throw in a couple of dancers in panties.
“Are you visiting from New York?” he asked.
“It’s the Midwest,” he said. “Welcome.”