New Escape Room just kiddy pool of Vaseline and very small crevice to outside world

Chicago, IL-The newest way to spend money that you don’t have in order to generate Instagram content and spare yourself from any type of self-reflection or original thought is officially here! Escape Hole is the newest player, in the luxury, leisure self-confinement industry. But unlike other escape rooms in which guests are forced to solve ill-conceived riddles with coworkers and family members they find tolerable, Escape Hole is the first ever solo escape room.

Guests are locked in a tiny room, containing only a baby pool filled to the brim with a combination of Heinz Mayonnaise, 2% milk and your choice of scented or unscented Vaseline. The room itself has a variety of burlap lined holes and crevices, each unnaturally small, for the person to strip down and try and birth through.

Unlike other escape rooms, you’ll feel the crushing paranoia of having to probe and prod the different crevices to find out which one you can desperately cram your flesh into to ooze out the other side.

But there is light at the end of the tunnel! If you escape successfully, your greased and scratched body will be spewed into the adjoining Fuddruckers where you can enjoy a heaving burger with other lonely, pathetic participants.

RPM Chicago

Rating: 3.0/10.0

It had taken a full month to get reservations at RPM, which I now know is a glorified Sbarro’s sans legendary Baked Ziti, Garlic Knots and friendly corporate atmosphere.  I knew instantly I was out of place because my man cleavage was non-existent. Damn it, I knew I should have the worn belly button deep  v-neck shirt I bought. My date, though beautifully dressed, was out of place as well. Her outfit not affording her the possibility of a well-timed nip/box slip like the rest of the proud restaurant attendees.

The building reeked of a perceived, imaginary exclusivity. Pushing through the revolving doors several future model/actresses/flight attendants stood around the check in table, none of which seemed to be actually doing any work. Alleged employees. As was the case with the rest of the restaurant, there were at least 3 employees to every 1 patron. Including an enormous shaved head security guard, that wearily eyed people eating mediocre pasta, every patron clearly a possible candidate to hit someone with a toothbrush shank. It was fascinating  watching the different employees perform imaginary or otherwise pointless tasks, one woman’s sole job was to determine whether anyone had taken a sip from their water glass and promptly refill it. Most just eagerly did laps around the restaurant.

We arrived on time, and were told to sit down in the waiting area. Reservations are meaningless in this world. After 20 minutes I looked at my phone realizing the host, who had several times made eye contact with me and flashed a stupid grin, had texted me telling me my table was ready. Because we all stare at our phones during a date. Confused I confronted him and he smugly assured be the table would be ready momentarily. Hands down one of the most bizarre interactions of my life.

The food arrived all too promptly, leaving no mystery that Giuliana Rancic herself was in the back  pleasantly microwaving her favorite Lean Cuisines. Manipulating the buttons with her ET fingersThere was a relentless battering about how every item on the menu required shaved black truffles (for an additional $22) to make it halfway decent. When we declined the waiter seemed perplexed and annoyed, clearly not ordering these had all but made us the bane of human existence.  It’s not that the food was bad…it just wasn’t good. I think I chipped a tooth on the garlic bread that was clearly pilfered from the lady feeding pigeons off the Wilson Red Line stop.  A true beacon of mediocrity. Long John Silver’s has a more esteemed seafood program. The portions were microscopic, sized perfectly for the sprites in FernGully, leaving any average sized human longing for more. The looming and hovering staff also made me feel like Joey Chestnut on 4th of July, shoveling the tiny morsels into my mouth to mercifully be relieved of their judging stares.

The over-hype on this restaurant cannot be stressed enough. I don’t know what moron first ate there and tricked this entire city into thinking it was good, but if I did I would give him a swift kick to the nuts.

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Lollapalooza 2014 Lineup Review

Rating: 2.0/10.0

What a relief. Enormous exhale. Sigh. Over exaggerated brow wipe. I thought for a minute there Lollapalooza was actually going to have a band I wanted to see, but hadn’t yet. I can officially put any and all concern to bed. Tuck it in nicely, kiss it on the forehead. Be relieved of the burden that had been attending the last several years. The cross has been lifted.

Looking at the lineup I couldn’t help to think, I’ve seen this all before. Probably because I have. Orangizer Perry Farrell must have been dumpster diving in the shredded lineups of years past, then constructed this uninspired turd. Bound together by vomit scraped from the mud at Perry’s DJ tent and greed. Oh yeah, and garnished with the tears of everyone who got ripped by scalpers, lost their friends at the mile long bathroom lines, didn’t see a single band, and got swallowed by overwhelming swells of humanity at last year’s blunderous outing. There are some great bands on the bill don’t get be wrong, but it all seems like a bizarre rerun. An indistinguishable episode of Bar Rescue that you’re not sure if you’ve seen or not, but pretty sure you have. How many bars could have roaches in the deep fryer? I mean really. Running through the lineup I actually dozed off midway through. Upon awakening I could have swore the year was 2010.

NickelbackCreed, and O-Town could all be headlining and 10 million people would still show. Perry knows this, so what does he care who plays? Might as well make the festival with all of the quality of a straight to DVD release. This thing has Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj written all over it. It’s become a safe-haven for the jobbers of the city. Where else would the bros go to show off how swoll they got over the winter in a vintage NBA jersey? Where else would the teens go to eat copious amounts of molly and drink enough Shock Tops to be puking on a stranger’s shoe by 11:00 a.m.? Most importantly, if not for Lollapalooza, where would all of those testy middle-aged wonders place their massive picnic blanket and not budge an inch the entire festival, then scoff at people for trying to maneuver around it? I can’t imagine a world without that.

Top Three Painful Gulps of Balmy Swill at the End of a King Cobra 40 oz aka The Headliners:

1.) Lorde has to be the least exciting headliner in history. I have no interest in paying a couple hundred bucks to watch one of the witches from Hocus Pocus lurch around on stage, while the same crowd at Nickelodeon’s Teen Choice Awards waits anxiously to hear Royals.

2.) I thought Kings of Leon went the way of the dodo…’nuff said.

3.) Eminem is a complete and utter has been, also nothing better than getting into a screaming match with a dude wearing a mesh Korn shirt.

This year I’ll be laid up drinking craft brews and grilling watching the mayhem “The Purge” style. Enjoy the relentless finger-blasting (Yes this happened last year, I suggest you don’t Google it) and face eating that will undoubtedly take place at Skrillex. My decision to never attend Lollapalooza again has never seemed so sweet.

Full Lineup