From the pages of Snowbound, the zine with ice in its veins ¥ Issue number 1 (3023 N. Clark #708, Chicago, IL 60657-5205; $4.75)
I moved away from Chicago in 1992. I was going crazy from being a sixth-year student in art school, and I was bored of the art scene and artists. One hot July weekend, I took a vacation with my cousins to Las Vegas and decided to stay. Vegas’ lack of morals, 1950s architecture, and maverick population made the idea of living there seductive.
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I now realize that culture is a precious and rare thing. I’m writing this in one of Las Vegas’ ten Starbucks locations since there are few other non-casino cafes in town. This particular Star-bucks is artsy and homey because they have chairs and tables made from flimsy dark wood that dents and scratches easily for the lived in feel although this cafe is only a few months old. I like it because I can create and wallow in depression and agony in a comfortable setting.
My face collapsed. He looked back at me with a blank stare. I suddenly remembered where I was. I was not in some big city where folks knew what humus was. I couldn’t believe he asked me that. Maybe I heard him wrong. I asked him over and over again if he was kidding. Maybe my reaction was out of line. I patiently explained that humus was a Mediterranean dish made basically of garbanzo beans, oil, and tabuleh and he swore up and down that he never heard of or tasted humus in his life. Later, he looked confused when I told him my phone was disconnected and therefore he couldn’t call me. He would have been so perfect if he was quieter.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): zine cover.
