July 11, 2008


The score upon returning home:
Plants dead, cats live.

A trio of friends surprised me at baggage claim, they crept up behind me, and I turned around wondering "whats that smell?"--it was Miles' moustache! FRIENDS!
Back home, JR and I did some big talking about his radio story, and a series of long, long walks with him and Ben each ensued. Big loops to get tacos and back both times. Same tacos for different people from the same place, hours apart. Picante at 1:42 was all slobbery and slack faced men of the office, nighted out and ousted by some nearby last call, dress shirts untucked and matched to some breakless casual pant. Their voices are loud and their jokes are loud and their walk is a sideways amble, like a cartoon animal that's been hit in the head. On the curb, some white hats and a date night woman argued "I can too, I did know that song was Radiohead. I LUUHVE RADIOHEAD!" the teasing boy replied only with "I'M GETTING A CIGARETTE." She yelled back "I WANT A CIGARETTE TOO. I DID TOO KNOW IT WAS RADIOHEAD." They were standing five feet apart, I was lamping on a planter between them; I believed her, she was emphatic; those boys were just ragging on her.

In Chicago, you are invisible to these people, unless you are DJing or they are really wasted. You are a ghost unless you are part of their crew, or at least their caste. The more drunk they become, the more they are aware of us scuffed up old kids. When they see you, they need to know, as if baffled by their sudden discovery: WHY ARE YOU EATING YOUR TACOS OVER THE TRASHCAN? Living in a city of drunk jocks will keep you punk forever. In LA, what can you rebel against--the sprawl of humanity? The zombie Pat O'Brien? White skies? Desire?

I missed this boisterous insular tiny-big city, everything is smaller than I remembered. I feared I would come home and feel dislodged and adrift, but I don't. I feel home.

Posted by Jessica at July 11, 2008 11:47 AM | TrackBack