It's Miles again.
I finally did it.
For months one of my life goals, one of the top five things to accomplish while living in Chicago has been to conquer the insurmountable surliness of the Rainbo's famed badass bartender Kenny. Kenny of the crippling sneer. Kenny of the icey stare. Kenny doesn't like anybody. I decided that I would make Kenny by buddy. And get him to buy me a beer. I worked him over for the better part of a year, complimenting him on the mix cds he brings into the bar (which, honestly, dude has some good taste) and tipped well. The months of effort paid off last night when I went into the bar with my new haircut and was greeted by Kenny actually busting up laughing for real. "Oh my god," Kenny said as he composed himself. "Good job. What do you want?"
I ordered a Pabst. He brought it over to me with the cryptic comment, "You're a citizen now," and refused to take my money. With that gesture I acheived the status of Level Nine Chicago Scenester (+8 ennui, +5 slack posture, 12 point upgrade to my Cloak Of Obscure Music References To Hide My Own Insecurities).
Today I cast a Spell of Namedropping that got me into the studio where I got to listen to some of the newly recorded Joan Of Arc material and jesus, man. Tim Kinsella's the only person in indie rock consistantly searching for new ways to be a genius and succeeding on an shockingly regular basis. Comparing your own music to his is enough to make you want to quit your band, which is probably a good idea anyway.