Green Velvet is in bad taste...

An appointment of fun with a friend brings you into a cab with a female cabbie who is not entertained by you clever conversations and neither are your unintended +2 attendees.  The cab in turn brings you to what is under absolute false pretenses a prestigious place to be.  I write of Violet Hour, Wicker Park, Chicago.  Curtains curtains curtains! Curtains of green velvet.  Oh as if that is not pretentious enough, a full line of people waiting to enter this pathetic excuse for a waiting room playing dentist office lounge music, expect you to be at your best behavior.  And if that were not enough a mere strange hand over your lips telling you not to sing off key loudly in the entrance hall.  This event speaks of the pretense that haunts our generation.  It is 2012 and we have no new ideas! So we cling!  We cling endlessly and selfishly onto things which are familiar to us.  We build up the infinitesimal music and art we know in order to give the appearance of security. Andy Warhol comes to mind.  A can of soup is a can of soup and  I spit on the Violet Hour and anyone who ever took it seriously. I had a deep disgust for this place for some reason.  

A ride with windows open and some reminiscent summer air approximately a fortnight post strikes in my head a memory.  A childhood memory non-the-less.  Schneiderin.   The german word for seamstress is schneiderin.  My mother had a schneiderin named Nada.  I had gone with my mother once for her measurements with Nada.  Nada's apartment was a live image of what the vomit of a velvet monster would look like.  Green velvet everywhere!  On the tapestries on the walls and the couches and curtains.  One might ask what kind of a person decorates an entire apartment in green velvet?!  Perhaps the same seemingly knowledgable snob who creates a dental office lounge and calls it chic.  I remember this night in my adulthood as a night that evokes a certain aura of mystery and a bit of fear.  A fear of what other deep little memories I am capable of probing as I think on the life I used to have as a child of two prominent members of  a society in a small European city.  

My experience is narrow, but the message remains... Green Velvet is in bad taste...