August 07, 2007
I WAS A LOVER BEFORE THIS WAR
I didn't mention the final highlight (sic) of Lollapalooza! It was a doozey. Four songs into Pearl Jam's set, there was a drum solo. The drum solo intersected with the fireworks from the Bears game at Soldier Fld. We were like a mile away from that action, watching it all go down, sated and sweaty from TV On The Radio (miracle cure, Tunde's wiley hand wildly wiping the air, "I meant every / word"--amen, baby.) and everyone turned and looked at each other like "Is this really happening?!" It may not sound like a big deal, but it was like being face fucked with Old Glory: Tens of thousands braying along to "Jeremy", fireworks, sunburnt ppl barfing 9 hours worth of Miller Light onto the side of a muddy port-o-let.
I biked home alone, slow, up Fulton.
Fulton, my heart is there.
Fulton market is what remains of Carl Sandburg's Chicago, in my mind, at least.
Ruddy brick bldgs, streets dead at 6, stinking hard of meat and heavy industry in the August heat.
The city still, ever, the "tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities."