Supreme, small talk, and Tibetan singing bowls
Photo Credit: Dan Garcia
I’ve had the same Friday night ritual for nearly a decade now. Rush home from work, collapse from exhaustion and refresh Instagram for any content I might’ve missed in the 15 minutes it took me to walk home from the L. Powerless to the algorithm, I submit to the k-hole of endless scrolling and double tapping, only to be shoved back to reality when my phone slips through my zombie fingers and thuds flat onto my face. My first thought: Oh god, it didn’t crack did it?
As it turns out, a 35-minute deep dive into the body types I’ll never have, the money I can’t dream of, and the career success only attainable to those who emit Chanel No. 5 and nepotism, I actually felt more exhausted. Pause for dramatic, fake surprise. Alas, there are vodka lemonades to be guzzled and mistakes to be made. Exhaustion and imposter syndrome be damned. So, I roll out of bed and pull my average weight, average height self to the bathroom where a burnt-out lightbulb and dirty makeup brushes encourage me to beat my face to high heavens. Or at least attempt to hide some of the hormonal acne claiming squatter’s rights along my chin.
As I extend my eyeliner wing a centimeter beyond what I have dubbed “business casual,” DJ Spotify queues one of my favorite Friday night songs: Successful by Ariana Grande. It feels so good to be this young and have this fun and be successful. I’m so successful. Honestly? Same.
Are you rolling your eyes yet? Am I hashtag basic? Well, the bartender thought so too.
My friends and I finally made it to the bar. Only about 4 hours after all of us started getting ready, actually met up, and suffered our way through a few waiting-for-the Uber shots. We present our IDs to the man at the door (we still get ID’d, thank god) and shuffle to order drinks. I barely have a moment to place my clutch on the bar when the bar wench - sorry, let me be PC - bartender, a short, stocky man with a wildly full set of red hair, greeted me with a facetious, “Let me guess. Vodka-soda and lime?”
As a matter of fact, Mr. O’Bartender, NO. I will take a vodka lemonade. And here’s a 30% tip because I’m evolved enough to know that your wanna-be-funny assumption is rooted in semi-good intentions, and because I’m a midwesterner who will apologize for bumping into a table.
My friend and I sip our drinks (sans straws because #turtles) and make our way to the oversized Jenga. We’re down a blonde - she was scooped up by a handsome stranger while I was accosted by the bartender. As we less-than-delicately balance the wood blocks, we’re approached by a couple of young men who, by the looks and smell of them, had been enjoying the aforementioned bartender’s drinks for quite a while.
They looked like a mashup of my Instagram feed – Supreme fanny packs slung across their chests, gold chains, clear-framed glasses, white button ups unironically paired with Adidas soccer pants… you’d think ComplexCon was in town. But no, this is the uniform of the young creative in 2020. For every basic white woman ordering a vodka-soda with lime, there’s a man with a Supreme accessory propositioning his friends to rap over his Garage Band beats.
The forthcoming conversation with Sir Supreme was as predictable as my drink order. He informed me that he was in town for his boy’s birthday, that they live in Evanston but go to school at Columbia, and -here’s the big closer- he’s a producer and makes beats. As a woman and near participant in this conversation, this detail leaves me with a few choices: 1) feign interest in his Soundcloud escapades or, 2) begin an elaborate game of “me too” in which I match all of his accomplishments. Wow you make beats? That’s so funny… me too! Nothing will disengage a man faster than realizing the woman who was supposed to be his quiet, doting audience is actually a human person with skills of her own. Gasp!
Fortunately for Sir Supreme, I went with option 1. He proceeded to tell me about how much he loves hip hop and making music and how his Soundcloud page has garnered a lot of “traction.” A few minutes pass, and he has yet to ask a single question about me. After mentioning his recent foray into “meditation beats,” he finally pauses to take a breath and glug his drink. Now’s my chance –
“Oh meditation beats, nice. I’m sure you’ve sampled Tibetan Singing Bowls then, right? I just love how whole the sound is. It’s all encompassing, perfect pitch has the power to just lull the stress right out of you. It’s hypnotic. But I’m preaching to the choir, I’m sure.”
Sir Supreme is puzzled. He hasn’t heard of those, he tells me. He back pedals and clarifies that “actually, I mostly just make hip hop beats.” My friend suddenly reappeared at my side, empty drink in hand. Sir Supreme jumped on the opportunity to escape my interest in obscure mediation instruments and went on to find someone more willing to listen to his ramblings in complacent silence.
Once he was out of earshot, my friend scolded me for, once again, being “weird.” I chugged what was left of my drink and let the ice avalanche cascade onto my face (I miss straws) as my friend reminded me that I am at risk of dying alone.
Maybe I am. But… It's not my job to be a soundboard for all the men seeking validation and one-sided conversation. That’s what Instagram is for. I didn’t come to the bar to be profile by a disgruntled leprechaun, nor did I come to listen to this dude’s dramatic retelling of his mediocre resume. I came because it’s Friday night, and I wanted to hang out with my friends. Nothing more, nothing less.
I love conversation with strangers, when both people are engaged. And sorry to my friend, but I’d rather die alone than spend a lifetime making polite, surface-level small talk. I wasn’t trying to neg Sir Supreme with my mention of Tibetan Singing Bowls; I was trying to engage.
Anyways. It’s Friday again and I’m thinking maybe I’ll just stay home and watch this video of Jhene Aiko playing a meditation bowl on a loop. PS: Her album just came out. Expect a review of it soon.
