Hood, Outside Closer When the year was still very new, I got off the train after work one day and was standing outside the Damen stop when I thought I saw an ex-girlfriend leave the station. She walked north to the six-way and, against my better judgment, I followed her, determined to confirm her identity. She went into Starbucks and I tried to peer through the front windows without being obvious about it, but the glass was fogged up and it was difficult to see anything and I never determined if it was actually her. She did turn around, and I think she may have seen me. Busted.
Archer Prewitt, Wilderness At the beginning of the year I quit drinking for a few weeks, and so my guilty pleasures were the New York Times Sunday crossword and the early rounds of “American Idol”. And, to a certain extent, the six-week writing class I took, which met every Thursday night on the top floor of a brownstone in West Lakeview. Something about it seemed indulgent, a tiny and very different precursor to the writing program in which I’d find myself later in the year. Driving up there always took at least half an hour because of the snow and the traffic, and I didn’t care about being on time.
Andrew Bird, Andrew Bird & The Mysterious Production Of Eggs In late March my brother and I spent a lazy Saturday walking around Bucktown, heading north aimlessly until my sense memory led us to the Charleston, a place I’d only been once before, and we sat at the bar and drank straight whiskey and talked about girl problems. Someone behind the bar played this album in its entirety, and my brother and I whistled along with it between uncertain assertions. As usual, I coudn’t stop playing with my coaster.
Spoon, Gimme Fiction The first and only bachelorette party I’ve ever attended was Katie’s, in Iowa City, in mid-April. Ransom and Joe and Zeb comprised the other male attendees, and our gift to her—$50 of hobo wine—wasn’t nearly as raunchy as that given by the female attendees: a host of sex-toy novelties, the best of which was headgear that emulated the old arrow-through-the-head trick, except with a phallus. We all got drunk in a hotel room high above the pedmall, then watched Katie run riot though various bars downtown, accosting complete strangers and yelling: “I’ve got a dick through my head! A dick through my head!” The undisputed highlight was the piano bar, where Katie accompanied the pianist on songs by Tenacious D and others.
Beck, Guero The penultimate weekend in May was spent in an especially drunken haze. Dino and Adam and I went stumbling around Lakeview and Bucktown and points in between, stopping briefly at Marie’s Riptide Lounge where we were the only patrons beside Mancow, about whom Dino became increasingly vehement and vocal until we almost got kicked out. The next day I played most of the Scissor Sisters album on the jukebox at Timber Lanes, then absconded to Leisel’s where I sat on her rooftop with a reasonably good view of the city and the sun in a cloudless sky, drinking cans of beer with Leah and others. I got tipsy and laid down on the roof, drifting in and out of a sun-stung sleep while the conversation continued around me.
The Hold Steady, Separation Sunday Returning to work after the weekend of Intonation wasn’t easy. For the first time in recent memory, I was oversaturated on music, my tolerance reached and surpassed, and didn’t want to listen to my iPod any more than I wanted to do my job. It was like the morning after a slumber party candy binge. But twenty-four hours earlier, at the height of a sweltering midsummer Sunday afternoon, I’d gotten drunk off an unimpeded flow of Goose Islands smuggled out from backstage by people with suspiciously-procured VIP laminates. Later, backstage, I shook hands with Craig Finn, who was probably exponentially drunker than I was. But the more appropriately dark and drunken milieu was the Empty Bottle a month prior, where a large group of people drunk on Scotch and PBR descended for a much longer, more raucous set. Summer began that weekend, and everything got just a little bit stranger.
Sufjan Stevens, Illinois I had to leave Chicago to figure out how much I loved it, and the further I got from that town, the more I missed it. In early August, I was at a large bacchanalian celebration on a friend’s farm just northeast of the Cities, and various radios placed around the property were all tuned to the Current, and on the morning they were all playing “Casmir Pulaski Day” was when I first knew the separation would be difficult, that it wouldn’t be a clean break. The same song was played several times in Aden’s living room on my last night in town, and I was getting preemptively sodden and sentimental on cheap whiskey. When Sufjan played “Chicago” at First Avenue a month later, I cheered with the same enthusiasm one displays for the home team at an away game.
The Books, The Lemon Of Pink Certain small geographic points serve as microcosms for entire eras. One such place is the corner of Pierce and Damen. I rounded that corner every morning at 8:43 a.m. in all kinds of weather, most recently in the uncomfortable morning heat of Chicago in July, the kind that makes one sweat through one’s business casual attire and wish one had worn an undershirt. Other such loci existed all over the neighborhood, less obvious than bigger landmarks like the six-way—the corner of Iowa and Hoyne just south of 909, the alley shortcut from my old apartment to D&D, the little conduit that Cortez makes between my brother’s place and the Empty Bottle.
John Vanderslice, Pixel Revolt In June I went to my five-year college reunion, held six years after I graduated. I was assigned a room in the oldest dorm on campus, just two doors down from the room where I lived when I first arrived at college: a corner spot with a good view of the Fox River, that view now impeded by the giant new dorm they’d constructed on the bank. The hallways and the bathrooms still smelled the same: old sweat and mildew and freshman desperation. I took a nap on the second afternoon of the reunion, pushing the narrow twin beds together and cracking the window to alleviate some of the unairconditioned, hardwood mustiness. The reunion itself was anticlimactic, and the moment I got back to Chicago I called Lauren and we dispatched two bottles of red wine and I got ready for the next thing, whatever that was.
Odd Nosdam, Burner / Röyksopp, The Understanding Every Monday, throughout the spring and summer, I met with my therapist after work. I’d stay half an hour late, maybe grab dinner with Nina and whomever else was still around, then walk north and east to the old professional building on Michigan Ave where her office was located. I was perpetually worried I wouldn’t have enough to discuss, but always managed to fill the hour, and when I got done with the appointment at seven-thirty, the sun would still be up, and on my way back to the Blue Line I’d usually place a call to Aden to see about getting wings at Cleo’s.
The Pernice Brothers, Discover A Lovelier You In late July I experienced the incongruous nuisance of a head cold in the summer. I walked to and from work sweating and chewing on zinc tablets. I played a Nolan show at the Subterranean high on beer and pseudoephedrine. Dino and I got drunk with Joe Pernice at the Empty Bottle. Dino introduced me to him using the MFA connection. It was the first in my month-long series of goodbyes to the city.
Boards Of Canada, The Campfire Headphase / Broken Social Scene, Broken Social Scene It was September and it was raining very hard. I was trying to get to a potluck that Arlene and her husband were hosting. I went through an underpass on Broadway, where some cars were turning around because the water was so high. I plowed right through it because I am an idiot. Afterwards, my car was making funny noises and a piece of plastic near the front left tire had come loose and was dragging on the ground. I eventually got to Arlene’s, and then to the Fine Line to see Michael Penn.
Elbow, Leaders Of The Free World When my brother visited me during the last weekend in September, I drove down to Nicollet Mall on Friday afternoon to meet him. He had taken the Light Rail from the airport and was due any minute. I couldn’t find a place to park for free and so I just made a huge square circuit around the mall, unable to slow down or stop, attempting to navigate the seemingly capricious network of one-way streets and bus lanes, eventually seeing him in front of Nieman Marcus. I stopped the car long enough for him to jump in, and because we were sitting in a car and I had to begin accelerating again immediately, our hug was awkward. Beginning then, and lasting throughout the weekend, was a persistent feeling that that either he should move to Minneapolis or I should move back to Chicago, because we weren’t living in the same town, and that didn’t make any sense.
Rogue Wave, Descended Like Vultures / Jan Jelinek, Kosmischer Pitch I celebrated the end of my first semester by getting snow tires put on my vehicle. I took satisfaction in the fact that all of my students were bright, conscientious people and not fuck-ups. I attended First Ave’s 35-year birthday party. I spoke with people on the phone about the upcoming holidays. (I’m just listing things now.) I got drunk at JetSet. I made sure the cat had enough food and water. Tara and I watched Magnolia on vicodin. We took Karen out for sushi. I burned the Fifth Season of “Six Feet Under” onto DVDs for Emily. I re-read “Out Of Ohio”. I used the Internet to purchase Christmas gifts for people. I went to a Hannukah party. I continued my slow slide into the sweet torpor that a recess between academic semesters dictates. I try to remain in a constant state of quiet exhilaration.
Posted: December 22nd, 2005 under Chicago, Minneapolis, Music.
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