Hello readers! I decided to type a bit today. Originally, I wanted this to be a stream-of-conciousness type of journal. (a "brain-douche" if you will) So I need to start getting back to that. It was much easier to maintain that before I worked from 9 o'clock in the morning to 9 at night, however. But, with luck, I will be in a better situation very soon. (I have an interview with a better firm on Wednesday of this week.) New Years resolution number one: Get a job that pays better and gives me more free time. (I'd settle for ANY free time after that last one)
It's 2:05 on an early and overcast Chicago afternoon, and naturally I'm wearing what I woke up in, since this is a rare and coveted day off. I am listening to the Buddy Holly CD that Santa left under the tree for me on Christmas morning. Thanks Santa, good shit. Just got off the phone with my little broseph, asking him what he ended up doing for New Years. The shot above is from New Year's Eve at my neighborhood bar, The Underground Lounge. We all threw down a flat amount of cash to drink anything we wanted from 9 o'clock t 3 am. Ended up being some serious fun. (often, I find that New Year's Eve is inevitably doomed to be anti-climatic, but not this one.)
What began as a slow, calculated sipping of beers, (after-all, pacing was an important issue here) became a whirlwind of fist-pumping to 80's metal, indulgent midnight kissing, and slipping in pools of spilt mixed drinks while attempting to dance. And all of this had a very funny sideplot too. I will explain:
There were two distinct groups, or "gangs", in attendance. Our group: Well-dressed, slightly older and positioned on what is normally the stage, seated at tables. Lets call us the "Preps", for lack of a better term. Now for our rival gang: The "Punks". This was DJ Shannon's crowd. (the blue haired chick that was commanding the ipod from behind the plywood partition.) Slightly younger perhaps, clad in tight-fitting thriftstore regailia, sporting black-rim glasses, they each boasted hair they must have started working on the night before.
For the first few hours, until well after midnight, tensions brewed and cruel stares were exchanged across the 10 foot line of buffer-zone which had developed between the gangs. Intermingling occured only when absolutely neccessary, such as when one had to take a piss and had no choice but to cut through the punk's territory to the crapper. On one of these very journeys, I began to notice that the punks were all wearing a small shiny red button with text I could not make out from the distance I was keeping. While positioned in line next to a member of the rival gang, I stealthfully peered over and deciphered the secret message of the buttons. It read, "I survived 2005". I needed one instantly. Preferably two. I condescended to speak to this spikey individual, in order to find out where these buttons had come from. "The guy in the yellow shirt." I found him in the crowd. It was clear that he was the leader of the Punks. It was becoming more and more like a less gay West Side Story.
I approached him cautiously.
"Hey dude, you make those buttons?"
"Yeah man, you want one?"
"Fuck yeah."
"Here dude, Happy New Year."
And like that it began. A truce between the Preps and the Punks. Moments later, we walked arm in arm into the center of the buffer zone. Upon seeing this symbolic union of the gang leaders, (a role I had accidentally assumed in my drunken stupor) the gangs began to intermingle, and then to dance together. When I woke on New Year's Day, the back of my shirt was black from doing that "run in circles while lying on the floor" dance.
It was a profound and truly touching experience, one that may or may not manifest in the form of a story told hundreds of years from now.
Happy New Year.
