I have been listening to "Jesus Etc." by Wilco almost nonstop during the last week. Tweedy sings "our love is all we have" and the violin turns to pizzicato, and the whole thing just makes me crumble. Rob Gordon had it right: What came first, the music or the misery? I want the kind of connection that popular music promises: happy, problem-free, intense. What I've found is that actual love is sometimes happy, rarely problem-free, and varying in levels of intensity. Music, you lie.
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Last night during the train ride to the city from O'Hare: I was huddled in a corner, struggling to stay awake as the train passed station after station. There were only four other people on board, and my eyes drifted to t the back of one boy's head. "Oh, now, that's a nice haircut," I thought. Then he turned around, and who was it but the inimitable FRESHMAKER. We smiled big goofy grins at each other, and he sat down across from me. I was worried that I smelled and looked bad after spending the day traipsing around Manhattan, so I was convinced that I had probably stunk up the train like a big pile of dung, and he was probably just coming over my way to be polite, and he would probably notice that pimple that sprouted behind my jaw, and so on.
But of course, everything went well, and we talked from the California stop Division, where we both deboarded. "Do you know of any bars around here?" asked the Freshmaker. "My friend says there's a tiny hole in the wall around the corner from the studio." Instead of taking this potential date bait, I said, "I always want to go to Polish bars and hang out with little old Polish men." And now the Freshmaker probably thinks that I don't want to get it on with 27-year-old megafoxes, but 77-year-old incontinent Poles.
We talked all the way to Chestnut and Ashland, where our paths split. "I'll call you soon," he said before hugging me goodnight. If I were suave, I would have said, "Cool, talk with you lata." But instead, I smiled and squawked, "Okay! Hey, you should come over for dinner sometime. I like to cook for my friends. I'm a good cook. All this (I point to my general body area) and I can cook, too." He grinned and we parted. God, even David Hasselhoff is smoother than I am. DAVID HASSELHOFF, people.
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Last night during the train ride to the city from O'Hare: I was huddled in a corner, struggling to stay awake as the train passed station after station. There were only four other people on board, and my eyes drifted to t the back of one boy's head. "Oh, now, that's a nice haircut," I thought. Then he turned around, and who was it but the inimitable FRESHMAKER. We smiled big goofy grins at each other, and he sat down across from me. I was worried that I smelled and looked bad after spending the day traipsing around Manhattan, so I was convinced that I had probably stunk up the train like a big pile of dung, and he was probably just coming over my way to be polite, and he would probably notice that pimple that sprouted behind my jaw, and so on.
But of course, everything went well, and we talked from the California stop Division, where we both deboarded. "Do you know of any bars around here?" asked the Freshmaker. "My friend says there's a tiny hole in the wall around the corner from the studio." Instead of taking this potential date bait, I said, "I always want to go to Polish bars and hang out with little old Polish men." And now the Freshmaker probably thinks that I don't want to get it on with 27-year-old megafoxes, but 77-year-old incontinent Poles.
We talked all the way to Chestnut and Ashland, where our paths split. "I'll call you soon," he said before hugging me goodnight. If I were suave, I would have said, "Cool, talk with you lata." But instead, I smiled and squawked, "Okay! Hey, you should come over for dinner sometime. I like to cook for my friends. I'm a good cook. All this (I point to my general body area) and I can cook, too." He grinned and we parted. God, even David Hasselhoff is smoother than I am. DAVID HASSELHOFF, people.
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