Can you imagine the guy who wandered into Madame Zuzu's tea emporium last Friday, completely unaware that Smashing Pumpkins frontman Billy Corgan was giving a nine-hour performance based on his interpretation of a book. Well, that guy was my friend Henry, who did just that and wrote me this email:
I don't get to jonesing for tea often, but two or three times a year, if I see a new place that looks like they might serve a respectable oolong, I'll pop in. Such was the case (last Friday) out in Highland Park. I went to see a guy about a cell phone and, as I'm walking back to my car, I spot a place called Zuzu's and decide to give it a go.
I step in and, once my eyeglasses adjust, I see this seven-foot-tall Uncle Fester stunt double tinkling what turns out to be quite a large and no doubt expensive collection of Moogs. Thing is, he doesn't seem to have a real destination in mind. I literally asked the woman behind the counter, "Is that guy just trying them out? Did I stumble into a music shop and order tea again?!" She gave me a dirty look, polite, but still contemptuous.
With steaming oolong in hand, I look and see that all the seats were taken, but not a single Asian. Who was it that said, "If you don't see an Asian in a Chinese restaurant or a tea shop, LEAVE!"? That would be my Asian girlfriend, Pingyang, who reminds me every time we try out a new Thai place.
Wait, there's one over there. Just took me awhile to see past the rose-thorn tattoo running the length of her leg, which I would not know existed if she was wearing PANTS. I mean, not that I'm complaining, but who wears shorts in February?! Did she not get the memo about this winter being a total ice bitch?
Then it hits me: "THIS IS A PERFORMANCE!"
Luckily, I picked up on that before making a further ass of myself. Those opportunities present themselves so rarely that I took it as a good sign. So I'm drinking my oolong and watching Uncle Fester, who by now is slumped over, smug in his self-importance, holding a glass of tea in one hand as he plods with the other. By that point, I almost wish I had walked into a music shop by accident. Some kid taking his first tentative crack at "Stairway To Heaven" is surely preferable to this.
Or is it?
Maybe I'm the one being self-important. Dude, I think to myself, relax. I stretch my neck, work my shoulders a bit, and then I unclench my butt cheeks.
Ahhh, this is kind of relaxing. Fuck, I could get used to this. After a few more minutes, the music, if you can call it that, begins to take on a "Vangelis record played at the wrong speed" majesty that I like even more once I spot a couple really nice looking women to watch. One cute rocker chick was killing me with a 30-year-old Harley Davidson t-shirt that she looked absolutely amazing in. At one point, I approached her, we talked about the tea she was drinking, and she let me feel her bicep.
Anyhoo, I killed an hour, it felt like three, thereby making me feel like I got a more shit done than I usually do Wonder who that dude was and how long he ended up playing?
Henry