I ain't smoked a cigarette in four days, and I knew visiting club land with Miles would be temptation island. But we were in an out, strolling simply on some return-the-favor carmic reboot, giving face time at the other marginally attended monthly dj nights around town. Support Your Local Scene.
I was wearing a long knit poncho that is a Neil Young for girls model from the thrift, mostly purple and stripes. I like to wear it when I am about on the bike cos it makes a good shadow, makes me look like a bird, arcing long across the ground between streetlights, fringe as feathers. Bike plus birdness equals a superheroic feel. Apparently, no one else is getting this vibe, as two seperate pairs of drunk lubbers a mere block apart called out to me, asking me for pot. Both times the people make a squinchy face and mime puff-puff-pass . Both times the men asking for weed have wet look hair and untucked black dress shirts over light rinse denim jeans (rewind-selecta). Perhaps someone has posted a note on craisglist.com that around bar close of weeknights an elf-sized girl in a purple cape rides down Chicago Avenue tossing lids of Humboldt County bud out of the frontmounted plastic bike basket. And they were just standing there waiting for their drop, and now they got me confused with her.
Second, I floss you this: the Chicago Reader that came out today, it's got my hardcore fest scene report in it. It's not online, so no linkity link TBA push here action. I think it came out pretty dece given it's only 532 words - shorter than I usually work, so, I was trying to channel some swift, drier wits: "How would Hendrik Hertzberg cover Chicago Fest 05?" was the mantra. Not sure how on I was with that, but every dream deserves the light, no?
It was a funny thing, funny haha and funny god's handiwork funny, tonight, after ol' Al B Surian stopped by for catch up & tea and grilled cheeses, we went off to Kinkos. He to xerox his new comic book and me to pick up the mini-reissues of Hit it or Quit it I had printed up. They are 12 years old, their masters are crumbly and stained with brittle ancient tape round the edges and grunge's cruel irrelevence. On the way home, I stopped and picked up the Reader with my peice in it. I was carrying these two stacks in the house, and realized, in my hands, these were the exact bookends of my writing life. The little fanzine I brought to the Uptown Kinkos in Minneapolis in 1991, because no magazine or paper or monthly shill sheet would let me write for them -- and like magic, here, 13 years after the fact, I am finally living my teenage dream.
I know that sounds like 7 and a half brands of corny, but because of that, that feverdreamed 40 years in the desert, every time I land another assignment, or another little review comes out, it is as if Harold Washington has risen from the dead to present me with a key to the city. I call my parents and say "Guess what?!" as if they will not believe it, like it's a christmas miracle, because it is for me.Posted by Jessica at April 1, 2005 04:13 AM | TrackBack