So I was walking in Bucktown the other afternoon and I swear I saw Moby…..47 times. But then I realized the implausibility of that and remembered no…I was just in Bucktown.

On that same note, I went to dinner in the Gold Coast and had full-fledged conversations with David Hasselhoff…nine different times. It would have been 10, had the Hasselhoff look-alike’s girlfriend not angrily intervened. Then again, it’s hard to convey anger when your forehead doesn’t move…

The same clichés go for the Hollister-wearing, popped-collared frat brothers and sorority sisters of Lincoln Park. And let’s not leave out our favorite bunch: the people in the Loop who trample you with their brief-case-turned-rollaway-suitcase because they’re talking on a BlueTooth ear piece while fiddling with their BlackBerry clip as they head back to the AON Center…for a very important meeting.

We are in a crisis.

Chicago is even more segregated than I had originally thought.

And what is even greater than the clichéd people is the clichéd nightlife that undoubtedly settles into each of the different areas, allowing the clichéd characters of this city to fester and grow. I vowed long ago to challenge myself to think outside the ‘hood.

I am going to start with Moby-ville.

It began with a simple night out at Debonair with a bunch of my friends. What can I say, I love ’80s music and dancing; please don’t judge.

The conversation began like so:

Moby imposter (wearing a Ramones tee…branded at Strange Cargo): So…like…do you like music?

Me: Yes, of course. (Hello, I’m at Debonair, clearly not for their specialty drinks)

Moby imposter (the perfunctory adjustment of the black-rimmed, non-prescription glasses before he speaks again): So…like…do you wanna come see my band play sometime at the Double Door?

I will spare you the rest of the gory details. But know this: I have no doubt in my mind that he would’ve offered to buy me a free-range vodka soda had I not politely stepped aside to go dance. (I have never had such love for Boy George).

Surely, there has to be a place in Bucktown where not everyone is just..so…Bucktown?

Fast forward to the next weekend…

My college friend, who is (dear Lord) married was feeling restless and wanted a fun “Beth and Patrice” night on the town. I will say, there is something mildly depressing about trying to reenact college days but inwardly knowing things have changed. Wow, I just depressed myself. There will be no more of that in this particular blog entry. But I am not making promises for the future. Anyway…

Bucktown is a happy medium point for us, so we decided to start our night there.

And that particular evening I knew in my heart that I just could not stomach an attack of Mobys and swarms of Pete Wentzes. So the usual haunts were pretty much out.

I then remembered my roommate just went to a place in Bucktown called Violet Hour and was surprised at how cool and different it was for the area. A few texts later and an admittedly slight twinge of the “Let’s-just-go-dance-to-’80s-music-at-Debonair” thought later, we found ourselves outside an unmarked black door.

At first I rolled my eyes because the umarked, graffitied door screamed, “Oh, I am so hip and underground…and so Bucktown.” The exact cliché I was trying to avoid that night. From the looks of the door, I was expecting the worst. Moby, bring it on….I guess.

My married friend didn’t get out much anymore, so she was just excited to be anywhere that didn’t include the words “potluck” and “other couples.” I could sense her fears were not exactly in-line with mine that evening.

When we walked into the lounge’s lobby my expectations rose slightly for a very unlikely reason. There was a no cell phone use policy. I mean, I am even talking about texting. What!?! Well, then how could all my little hipsters mass-text the time and location of their next gig. Hmm….perhaps this place was different?

And indeed it was.

Where were all the Ramones vintage tees? Where were all the Converse Chuck Taylor AllStars? And most noticeably missing…where were all the obligatory Bucktown faux-hawks?

I almost felt weird. I almost wanted to run back to my “safe Bucktown place” so I could declare that everyone and every bar is so cliché.

But Violet Hour was staring me down…and so was the DiCaprio look-alike from across the room…or so I thought. My married friend Beth was gorgeous and had a ring. And I’ve learned that rings (yes, even on women) are one of nature’s most powerful attraction magnets.

As he sauntered up to talk to…yes, it was her, I only prayed that he wasn’t going to ask us to come to his show later on that night at the Double Door. And yes, he was too good to be true. In his defense, it wasn’t his band.

But I suppose it’s all about baby steps. And I had already accomplished my mission of finding a non-clichéd place, in an endearingly, hilarious sea of Mobys.

Moby photo courtesy of wikipedia.com.

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