Went to Wicker Park on Friday with the Medievalist, her boyfriend, a few of their friends, and another guy from the program.

(I'm not made of apt nicknames, people. Some people in my life must languish in internet anonymity longer than others.)

After hearing Celine, or maybe it was Jinx, go on about all the hipsters there, I was a bit disappointed. It's possible that I just can't spot hipsters, that, incredibly, what was hipsterish three years ago when I was paying more attention is no longer so and I was elbow deep in hipsters all night — but I'll trust my instincts.

I'd like to see it in the daytime before passing final judgment, but the neighborhood seemed cool and relatively unpretentious. The first bar we went to, the Map Room, had a dozen imported beers on tap and a suspiciously inaccurate painting of Africa on the wall. It shook my faith in tectonic plate theory. There was ample cigarette smoke and that nice background buzz from other conversations.

A good bar. It did me in though; I guess the beers from social hour hadn't yet worn off. Or I'm just a hopeless lightweight. Or a wannabe beer snob: You don't usually find Spaten Oktoberfest on tap. One of the Medievalist's friends had studied in Freiburg too but never had a colaweizen.

Everywhere we went seemed to have those tiny little bar tables with the wobbly chairs.

We had some Mexican food and I remember that the main amusement at the last and final bar was sticking my finger in lukewarm wax. I wasn't the only one, to be fair; it seemed really interesting at the time. That place had crazy music: the first time I've heard my once-beloved Eels at a bar.

There were plans made to hang out some other time outside of social hour, which sounds good. But I was tapped as far as this weekend went.

I spent Saturday and some of today researching for my master's thesis. Anyone interested in blogging and narrative can stay up to date on that at my research blog, which is doubling as my research notebook. The rest of you I won't trouble with it.