Caveat: I am in a flyover state so therefore I am an easily-amused hickblossom, but: I have been known to be amused by having a lengthy conversation with nutty 80-year-old guys in the middle of nowhere who hand me things like arsenic bottles and walrus peens and promise to show me their mammoth cave and don't mean it as a euphemism. I've found myself surrounded by alpacas for no discernable reason other than an incorrect atlas, and talked to a lady whose yard is a certifiable lawn gnome habitat - because I don't expect that shit will happen to me unless I go out and find it. Waiting for it to come to you and then bitching when it doesn't is the mark of the banal, not someone who's the epitome of culture and excitement. I have no use for people who can't make their own fun. It's not the universe's job to entertain you without getting nothing in return. And in Chicago of all places, that takes special effort. Find a fucking pub at least, it's not hard, and talk to the bartender about what goes on.