Meadowlark

I have a young, hip uncle who grew up in trendy West Coast locales such as Seattle and Oakland. I came of age in clueless, couture-less Illinois. Once, when I was in my teens, he said to me, “I’d rather look good than feel good.” I could never quite get on board with this.

In November, I decided that layers of hooded sweatshirts, track jackets and long-sleeve shirts no longer constituted proper winter coatage. Not this season. So I bought a hideously un-haute parka with a fake-fur hood so gnarly it makes me look like Kenny from South Park if I zip it up all the way. This was not an ironic purchase: I ride a scooter year-round, for chrissakes.

Lately, I have taken to wearing my house slippers in public — to the post office, the gas station, even to Goodwill and some shops on South Broadway. They are shoe-shaped, blue-gray plaid and have a textile/rubber composite sole. I realize that wearing them out qualifies as a fashion atrocity, but frankly, I don’t give a shit.

This is partly why I have them on again tonight at the Meadowlark (2701 Larimer Street), the kind of laid-back, low-lit underground lounge where the ten or so people crowded around the caramel-colored, U-shaped bar don’t even notice the guy in head-to-ankle business-casual clothes (me) wearing slippers. Or if they do, they don’t laugh openly or whisper out the corner of their mouths about it. Which is polite of them.

The other reason for my fashion faux pas is that my companion and I just gorged ourselves on bacon cheeseburgers and French fries at another tavern (no food at the Meadowlark), and leaving my slippers on as we switched spots was a symbolic gesture similar to the belt-loosen-and-belly-rub combo. We were feeling that full.

We still feel that full — mi compadre more than I — but at least my feet are cozy. Behind us, four dudes in an unexceptional jam band whose name I don’t catch bounce around on rectangular rugs and noodle up and down their respective scales. I’ve never cared for any of this made-from-Grateful-Dead-concentrate, good-vibe stoner rock, but my buddy used to like Phish or whatever, and he’s less than impressed, too. So we smoke.

But we find no relief on the street-level back patio — where a hundred-plus-pound Rottweiler named Logan is unhappily tied up and two patio heaters spit out little more than sparks and fumes — because of speakers hooked into the house P.A. system. We do our best to ignore the vocal-heavy mix, slipping instead into a reverie of sunny summer afternoons and starry nights spent on this very patio.

Back inside, I grab a drink menu, thinking a switch from Bud bottles might soothe my stomach, still swarming with fryer grease and ground beef. I already know there’s no draft beer — sigh, groan, grumble — but I’m curious about prices. “How much for Tecate?” I ask the bartender.

“Three bucks.”

“And for Budweiser?”

“Three-fifty.”

“The Bud costs more than the import?”

“I guess.”

“That makes no sense, right?”

“Right.”

Granted, the Tecate is in a can, and bottled beer is generally more desirable and in vogue than canned beer, especially at a bar. But I actually prefer Tecate in a can. And I think I’ve made it clear just how much I care about appearing classy. “Two Tecates, please.”

Function over fashion.