Been meaning to get these words down...

Last weekend took a little trip to Chicago. It's in Illinois. With my friend Bart. That's his real name. Went to see the Pitchfork Music Festival. Great idea. I hate tollways. Not sure of their point. Read signs advertising both Ronald Reagan's birthplace and Walter Payton's former home. Led me to wonder who would win in a fight. Today. Probably in poor taste, but that's why I didn't say it out loud. Navigated through the city to Union Park on 1501 West Randolph Road. 60607. Got there in time for Band of Horses. Fantastic little outfit. Then Mountain Goats played. John Darnielle is funny and painfully honest about his heartbreak/divorce songs. Bought beer tickets and drank about a bushel of 312, Goose Island's wheat brew. Had a pulled pork sandwich. Grinned. Was anxious to hear Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Lost my face. To end the set, he headbutted the mic four times and bloodied his forehead. I mean really bloodied the son of a bitch. Probably needed some medical attention. Made our way to Stanko's downtown studio apartment on the 38th floor. He had just got done winning $6,000 in Bodog.com's poker room. Drinks were on him. I obliged. Tried to make it to a place called the Hideout where some of the artists were going to spin their favorite tracks. It was at capacity. Cabbed to Wrigleyville. Met Gage at The Central and like I do every night at 12:15, slammed a pint of red bull+vodka and a random Miller Lite back to back. Met a dude who graduated with my stepbrother from NPHS. Called Doug. Woke him up and coerced him to come drink. Left the bar at some point. We'll say 2:00. Called my boss at 2:07. Shit. He called back at 2:57. Sweet. Went to a bar apparently called Nick's Uptown. They've got some pool tables. I come up with the brilliant plan to act like a pool shark. I would size up these dudes' shots and act like I knew something they didn't. I'm sure I acted like a moron. Woke up on Gage's couch thankfully fully clothed. Realized he had my Husker blanket. Dick. Grabbed breakfast at the Salt and Pepper Diner. Had a mimosa. Would've had two but they were out of champagne. Took the El downtown and got started on day two. Walked the Magnificent Mile and visited Napa's place of employment. Day two was cooler than Saturday but not by much. Highlight of the show was Devendra Banhart's set. Kinda spacey, kinda jammy, kinda awesome. Get back to the 38th floor and finally stop sweating. Decided that 12:15am is a great time to go out on a Sunday night. Good idea. Made our way to Lincoln Park. The neighborhood. Not the band. A little place called Stanley's had a live karaoke band. Didn't know it was a karaoke band because the first guy sang Pearl Jam's "Alive" like it was his fucking job. Realized the karaoke portion of the equation when a different dude sang "Head Like a Hole." Everyone was in their twenties and everyone was having a blast. This place closed at two. At last call I find myself exiting the restroom to hear, "Salisbury, get the fuck out of here." To which the person replies, "Shut up and get me a beer." I have a look-see around the corner to see Sean Salisbury with some 22 year old hanging all over him. We shake hands. I tell him where I'm from and he quickly sings Callahan's praises. Then I tell him I think Nebraska has a shot at USC. "Now you're just full of shit." We all giggled.