Sunday, March 12, 2006

With my two fists of iron and I'm going nowhere

Like a piece of driftwood, we feel unmoored and anchorless on the weekend nights. It's not a bad feeling to see the stumbling St. Paddy's drunks, or four people on a scooter dangerously weaving down Division like a deadly screaming missle of toussled skirts and cowboy boots, or the art school couple all in white leaving their last party of the night, leaning into each other like old people walking the deck on a Carribean cruise. And some dude just called the Razr asking for Debra. It's 3:09 in the morning, pal, and it looks like you ain't getting no cookie. Another cosmic booty call missed. We feel your pain, mook. If Art Bell wasn't raging right now about the Phoenix lights we might try and take your night in a very interesting direction. Just kidding!

The weather tonight was fabulous, a glorious blast of spring, which helps things. You think we weren't going to dwell on sobriety? Uh, wrong blog, friends. It's still boring. And Diet Rite is starting to taste like liquid inspidness. But kind of reassuring is the feeling of doing without and being separate. Our favorite bartenders know to start pouring the Ginger Ale or cranberry seltzer at the sight of us, and they still don't charge us a thing. Working up the nerve to flirt is a real bitch, though. Our social skills in toto seem to have taken a rather graceless swan dive. Any advice? We still see the honies making money (rather, spending it), but our feet are leaden and adjustments we make in our mind towards conversational inroads come too slow and we just talk about how we're 23 days sober, which most partying at the bar types don't really want to talk about. Or more accurately, we're like that big turtle at the Shedd Aquarium that just swims in a circle staring at the families on the other side of the glass opening and closing it's mouth silently. Talking to drunk people when you are living on the regular can be like speaking a foreign tounge.

Speaking of foreign tounges, the Bottle was host tonight to a rather nice ensemble of Norweigan shoegazers called Serena Maneesh, who were doing the rocking in their absurdely tight clothing, and spoke perfect english. Kind of Velvets, kind of MBV, and we can still hear their bus humming loudly on Western Ave. below loading out, like their amps are never going to stop feeding back. Holy cow was their bass player a looker. Nico has been reborn in red Chuck Taylor hightops. Anyway, then we went to the Rainbo, started at a few walls and had some very curious interactions, moseyed on down to Rodan while spotting a bevvy of friends along the way, and had some "drinks" and then walked around the hood for an hour or so just kind of enjoying the benefits of early spring. Our minds are turning to late night bike rides to the lakefront, or down to the Loop just to look at all the big buildings in the early morning moonlight haze. We aren't too far away. In fact we could do it right now, but Myopic beckons at 4 PM tomorrow. Responsible! What we really feel like right now is a big bologna sandwich. The fridge is empty.

The highlights of most of our nights these days, walking home from the bar or the bookstore at 1AM, is stopping by the Music Church. The Music Church is right off Division and Leavitt, just down the street from the Louis Sullivan Russian Orthodox (otherwise known as OGFP's choice as Chicago's most beautiful place of worship), and they have a speaker that pumps gospel tuneage 24/7, rain or shine. We think we know most of the Kirk Franklin and Hezekiah Walker backcatalogs now with no little authority. Maybe we need some churchin' up? Nah. Leave it to the believers.

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Anonymous said...

Bars are for drunks, not sober people. Getting sober is about more than *stop drinking*, it's about your whole life getting changed. Of course you are miserable you are 23 days sober and trolling from bar to bar. Drunks are boring and so are bars, which is the gross reality we can see once the likker fog is off you. There is an old adage about hanging out in a barbarshop long enough, you wind up with a haircut.

St. Renegade said...

Keep it up, cutie. All the truest honies love recovering folk.