Owl Gray

I am currently sitting on a sectional sofa at the back of a long room in a downtown storefront building. Indie Rock plays on the small speakers built into the exposed, stained rafters in the ceiling, where dramatic lighting casts shadows across the room and makes you feel as though you play a part in the art display behind you. The art, by the way, that unexpectedly portrays the same green villain involved in each of the farm or landscape scenes that line the east wall. Yes, you've got to see this to know what I mean.
The Gray Owl is simplistic. It is eclectic. The striking front door is a green gateway into a hipster's paradise, complete with retro used furniture and green OU chalkboard recycled for use as a menu list. It is the sort of place where time can pass without your knowledge, where you can sit, relax, and feel a sort of timelessness and freedom that is so often elusively out of reach. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing that this magical place will not soon sell-out to "the man" as other nearby venues have so disappointingly done (cough). With a cup of smooth, rich coffee in your hand, you can lean back in your consignment-furniture-store chair and thank goodness that you don't have to leave this marvelous place before the clock strikes midnight; and in this Cinderella-esque mindset you cross your glass-slippered feet on the handmade table in front of you, drink deep from your pumpkin latte and hum a bit of "A Dream is a wish your Heart Makes," knowing this very place is your dream come true.