Waiting for the footfalls

Patty gets back from a ten-day trip to Alaska, Canada, and Portland tonight. However, she's forgotten to give me any flight information whatsoever, in spite of my asking for it several times, and I have absolutely no idea what time she gets in.

She sent me an email about 5pm Chicago time on an unrelated subject, which meant she wasn't on the plane yet then, and I still have yet to hear from her. I believe it's four hours to Chicago non-stop, so at the very earliest she could be conceivably landing just about now.

I have no desire to search the flight-tables however, to educate myself for some sort of guess. The current feeling gives me just a little taste of what it was like to await a loved one way back when there was no electronic communication of any kind.

You were lucky if you even knew that she was headed home, then sentenced to spend the days and nights in growing anticipation, reading and passing the angst-ridden hours as candles grew shorter and the wind howled outside against clouded window panes. And when you were finally absorbed in a task menial enough to completely rid your mind of her odyssey and whereabouts, the door creaked open subtly enough for the sound to be taken for granted...until familiar footfalls broke through your consciousness, and your heart tightened in your chest...

Happy Birthday to You

That night you laid it out there on the stoop
I sat there, stared and smiled without reply.
So when you showed it threw me for a loop,
Until I stuck my thumb into your pie.
Yet even though it seemed it might not last,
For I knew better and to bide my time…
In Fall those Summer flings are long since past,
Our sleepless night together was sublime.
And as you told me stories of Down Under,
The bees flew ‘round and told me “she’s the one…”
She’s come to you like lightning comes with thunder.
That she’ll be there forever, like the sun.
In humid darkness appeared that ray of light
Your smile, prophesy, on the stoop that night.

Bon Voyage baby...two weeks is gonna seem like an eternity.

Appreciation

To my Darling Dame of the Velo Urbane:

So much of the time it is, "me, me, me."

This I now realize.

All we say for hours on end is, "bike, bike, bike."

And ignore you, and demoralize.

Italian and French men you've never known,

At your expense, we canonize.

And worst of all we never give thanks.

For that, I apologize.

And now it's time to recognize.


That we take all that pain through course of the race

So we can come home to the smile on your face.

We're gone all those weekends, to not see you at all

To make us seem stronger and 20 feet tall

We're guys afterall, just playing King of Hill

Because in the end, we all want the girl.

But to have you there, is beyond any measure.

To hear your cheers, turns agony to pleasure.

I will never again pass over your due,

Even on the ride out, the front seat is for you.

All You Need Is...

...meh. You're still getting hate today. Especially today.

Why does Congress feel the need to get involved in matters that don't concern them? Yes, they theoretically might have passed some legislation that makes Roger Clemens' alleged actions illegal, but now the proper course of action is through the courts. This is all just another way for them to posture, sniff, huff, berate, and make grandiose statements for soundbytes, all the while procrastinating their Constitituionally mandated duties to the point that when it's actually time to do their jobs, it's a nothing but a clusterfucked, half-assed effort. Sorta like I'm doing...right...now....hmmmmmmmm. Moving on.

Is there anything more depressing than an innercity McDonald's before 7am? Grumpy old men demanding extra butter. High school dropouts grabbing pre-cooked egg patties out of a warming drawer with plastic tongs? Restrooms only accessible with the manager's key, which she cannot find? (Be glad. Very glad.) So why does their coffee have to be just above mediocre, enough for me to get a cup on my way to the Blue Line and subject myself to that tragedy?

Next, enough with the Goddamn cupcakes, and cookies, and candy on the top of every Goddamn file cabinet. I'm trying to lose some Goddamn weight, already. No. You know what? Check that. Bring it on. Give me some temptation. I'm better than that. Goddammit.

And now to some meat:

Band drama. Enough said. I finally did the deed last night. The Midnight Shows and I are parting ways. It started pretty ugly but, by the end it was a hugfest. These last few weeks, as the magnitude of my training and racing commitment for this summer became obvious, I felt like Cowboy's character from "Full Metal Jacket", after he'd been shot by the sniper just before the climactic scene: "I can hack it! I can hack it!" I can't juggle three balls at one time, so why was I trying to do it with five?! Because it was a very talented group of musicians of which I was an integral part, but I simply had other priorities that were going to come first. There were also chemistry issues, and creativity issues, but the stress I was putting on myself was poisoning the well before I ever had a chance to draw from it.

I was planning on initially getting to rehearsal early to talk to Rudy about it, but I needed a workout on the bike first, and then to have a proper dinner. As I boiled the water for the pasta, I put my winter bibs on. And in between chopping onions I packed my bag with clothes for work the next day, since after rehearsal I was heading to Katy's. My life had turned into a game of Tetris. I finally rolled out for Logan Square at ten to eight. I was literally bursting the seams with dread at how my news would be received, and couldn't wait to get it out of me, as though I were pregnant with some alien seed. When it became clear rehearsal was going to go to 10pm that night, I didn't want to spend another hour on top of that discussing my situation afterwards when all I wanted to do was get some sleep. As we casually moved between songs, dwelling on such topics as the Grammys (I know, horrible - who would think to talk about that at a rehearsal?!?) my impatience and stress started boiling over, making the cracks visible to everyone in the room. I snapped at Charita, and then it was out in the open. I sat on my bass cabinet and spilled my guts, expecting vitriol and anger coming back at me for myself selfishness.

Love and understanding was what poured forth instead. We hugged, and agreed that I would still record with them that weekend in late March, between camp and Hillsboro. It was agreed that I'd contributed too much to The Midnight Shows not to be on this EP. Those songs have me in them. The reason I was so stressed about telling them my plans was that they wouldn't want me on the recording, since I'd be gone afterwards, and then they'd not be able to do it at all. They thanked me for having the character for not just running out and leaving them hanging.

It seems obvious to me, but experience has shown me in life that this is exactly what most people will do to avoid any sort of conflict. But I only wanted to please everyone. To keep experiencing the sunlight, that to me, is what playing music is all about. It shines on your soul, giving it life and power. And speaking the language of music keeps your brain sharp, like a sword, with which to attack all that life can throw at you. I love music. I also love my girlfriend. And my bike. And my team. And my other band.

Starting to make sense?

Well, I guess today will have some love in it, after all.

Trying Times in the Basement

At rehearsal last night my band leader wanted to rewrite a bunch of my bass lines.

This happens every few months or so. When he first hears them, they are cooler than ice...then he completely ignores anything I new for the next 2 months, and once he starts paying attention again, asks, "dude, did you change that line?"

"No."

Then we try and rewrite bass lines on 3 or 4 tunes out of a 12 song set. So it's basically the equivalent trying to teach someone English while speaking French the whole time. I don't know of any other way to describe the feeling. But I'll play what I have been playing, he'll say, "no it's too busy/simple" and then "simply/busy it up."

So I do.

He likes it for five minutes. And then changes his mind and says, "like this." And then basically plays it exactly as I had been playing it for the last few months.

I sorta slap my forehead, sigh, and continue trying to work with him for about five minutes until he realizes it's the same. Then I hear how it needs to be funkier, but what I'm playing is to syncopated. What I'm playing is too simple, but now there's too much movement.


"Hmmmmmmm. It's just not 'black' enough." Curtis Mayfield, Stevie Wonder, James Brown, and virtually all of the Motown discography are our standard, rightfully so, but sometimes it's not really what he wants. After all, we are just a bunch of white guys.

For example, on Sound Opinions this weekend, NPR's rock n' roll talk show starring Greg Kott and Jim Derogotis, the two Chicago music critics offered up their all-time unsung rock heros. One of which was James Jamerson, the man - influentially, at least - behind virtually all of the Motown bass lines recorded after 1970.

And JJ's lines were as busy as they come. Constant countermelody to the vocals, outlining the chords, as it should, but there is constant movement - understated, easy and lyrical - but always moving.

There's still the big influences of The Replacements, The Stones, Iggy Pop, and even the Stone Roses to contend with, however. We are far, FAR more than just a Motown band. What we are, however, I have no idea. And never will.

Because, in the span of 30 mintues I went from frustration, telling myself to give Rudy what he wants for the recording so he can have something concrete to teach his new bass player, to "eureka!" and finding the exact line I wanted and eager for our next rehearsal, and next show in two weeks at Subterranean on February 9.

It's those moments of discovery and musical release that keep me in this insane schedule of KatyBikeWorkMusicParty repeat. There's really no humanly way possible of balancing a schedule of two bands, a serious bike racing commitment, work, and a personal life beyond a day at a time. Of course, in 2 months, in the studio, Rudy will decide everything we came up with is no good, and I will commit suicide as we burn through dollars trying come up with new bass lines, keyboard lines, new beats to replace perfectly good imperfect ones in the relentless pursuit of perfection.

It will eventually kill me. I'll have to recognize the symptoms before it does and get the hell out. I already know I am taking way to much on to be successful in any of my many endeavors. It's just I enjoy the relationships I have built in all of them. I can't stomach the thought of telling anybody, "I'm out." But, soon there's just gonna have to be a safety valve blow.

In favor of love. For her and the bike.

Until then I'll keep looking for "eureka."

Oh Thank Heaven For Two Thousand Seven

Each year, at this time, everyone seems to become a music expert. Or movie-slash-book critics. Or fancy themselves as political pundits, and put out their - as if it were the only one -sardonic, cynical, sarcasm laden and authoritative "best-of" and "top-10" lists. Most are not worth the bandwidth I spent downloading them. Although I do have two or three friends who's guidance always puts me on the right foot at the beginning of the annual path: I always reset my musical compass to Mat, Lou, and Tankboy's compilations.

I hold no such illusions for myself, however. So I offer you, again, my 2nd Annual "The Best That I Could Do" list.

But first, I would just like to say this about my very brief Christmas break. It is far, far, FAR better to give than to receive. I say with complete deadpan expression, because, quite frankly, I give far better gifts that I recieve, with a couple exceptions. Katy's wine decanter - thank you VERY much, baby - and the gift card to Performance I got from my dad. Now of course, I am being quite facetious, because I did get a couple sweet ties as well (and I don't mean to sound ungrateful), but really, when you are effectively on the road at Christmas, staying at a relative's house because you didn't have the time to go all the way back to Alaska, you are basically an interloper into some other family's Christmas. And it puts things into perspective.

A perspective that is cauterized quite dramatically as I fell asleep in a tipsy haze next to a roaring fire in a quiet room, only to be jerked awake by an in-law (my uncle's wife's sister's husband, to be exact) jokingly playing with my hands like a puppeteer trying to get me to do jumping jacks after informing that they were going to open Christmas presents now...on Christmas Eve. At midnight.

You would have safer luck poking a chained-up grizzly bear with a stick, my friend.

And it just wasn't the same. Christmas Eve is for wine, dinner, conversation, laughter, reminiscing, and anticipation. Anticipation to be broken only after walking groggily around the kitchen, making coffee, waiting for everyone else to come downstairs...and then stalling, laughing as your little sister screams at you to "hurry up, Brian!"

I opened two nice gifts, and had perhaps my first beer ever whilst opening Christmas presents, but it was better to see everyone open mine. And all of it galvanized in my brain that I need to be HOME next Christmas.

Enough of all that. 2007, you will be missed and fondly remembered. I give you:

2007: The best I Did and Could've Done. In chronological order - they're all equally important.

1. Superbowl Sunday

It was a greater day than Christmas. Even with the eventual outcome. I'd cleaned my apartment to a glistening shine, set up bloody mary fixings and snacks, and had music DVD's playing in between various movie marathons on cable all day as friends stopped by, either for a visit, to stay and watch the game. By time the 1st quarter was over I had more open bottles and half consumed bags of chips on my coffee table than if we had been tailgating at Soldier Field itself. Completely blasted for the ignoble end to the Bear's surprising season, I said goodbye to the last of them, and about 4 hours later I was woken up from my snoring on the couch by a very strange noise emanating from my bookshelf. Actually the noise had been manifesting itself in my fitful dreams for quite a while now, but it had finally made it to the forefront of my conscious. It was Lisa's cell phone. It rang again and I got up to inspect it. Her ex-boyfriend. He'd been calling that whole time and had left maybe 10 messages. It took a lot of will-power not to answer it.

Honorable Mention: Feb 1st, The Double Door

2. February 21st, 00:15: Bologna, ITA

I had just gotten off the shuttle bus in from Forli Airport, after having arrived from London around 22:00. Mat was due to pick me up when the bus arrived around 23:45, but now he was beyond just a little late. A feeling that was intensified by the fact I had no phone and no conversational Italian. I walked back and forth across the courtyard of the Bologna Central Station, and in and out of the depot. Trying to be in 4 places at once, worried I would miss Mat in the looming shadows on the cobblestones. I had a phone number, but wasn't sure where the country code ended, and I had no change for the phones. And couldn't get my credit card into the slot. I went outside again, gathered up my courage and said to a gruff looking gent sitting out by the fountain, smoking a cigarette, "Escuse, poso usare il suo telefono, per favore?"

"No," was the only reply.

I hung my head and cursed. What now? My only hope was that Mat would just evenually show up...I mean, where else was I going to go? And at that moment, across the plaza, I recognized the shuffling gait and the headphone wires coming up out of the coat, coming towards me.

3. Rome: The very next day

We'd arrived in Rome, found our hostel, and had just gotten off the train at the Colossi station on the Roman subway. We scaled the stairs, and the exit to the street approached. As we walked closer to the doors, Mat looked back at me, and just as I saw It, I realized Mat was watching me to see my expression.

The phrase, "takes your breath away" is a much overused cliche, not be redundant, and has virtually no meaning in 90% of its use. But it was the only way to describe my reaction to the sight that greeted me as I walked out the doors of the subway station acrosst the street from the Roman Colosseum. I had expected a long walk, across a field, dirt parking lots, and a wait, that it wouldn't be very big.

The Colloseum filled up my entire field of vision and my lungs filled up with air. A gasp it was. And I held it. Just looking up, my eyes getting wider. It was right across the street. Made of actual stone. With the actual grime and dirt and age and wear and wonderousness of two thousand years. The gladitorial contests. The Fall of Rome. The Dark Ages. The Crusades. The Inquisition. The Renaissance. The Enlightenment. Napoleon. Two World Wars and the ravages of Fascism. Modern Life.

And it was still there. The Collesseum had stood there all that time and been witness to all of that history. I let my breath out and walked across the street.

4. April 28, Milwaukee, WI: My First Bike Race

It took enough courage just to join the damn team. Let alone ride in a race. But as Mat says, "There's nothing worse than regret." My only goal was not to finish last. And try not to get dropped. I didn't finish last and I almost stayed with the pack the whole time. I finally got dropped on the second to last lap and finished with some very encouraging words. You can read the full recap here. Big thanks to all my teammates, especially Luke and Jeff H., for all their advice and encouragement throughout the year. If it weren't for them I wouldn't be getting ready for a second season right now.

5. May 26th: Washington, DC.

I'd flown out to visit my friend John for a weekend. Nothing big, just to say hi and get out of town for a bit. We had some drinks, saw some monuments (The Jefferson - "what was Lincoln too busy?!" - Memorial is my favorite) but the highlight of the weekend was the morning run John and I went on through the Mall that Saturday morning. It was humid and cloudy as we stretched out in the parking space in Foggy Bottom. We headed past the State Department, and then paused for a moment at the Lincoln Monument before running up the mall, past the Smithsonian, through the commencement ceremonies of George Washington University out the lawn of the Captial, and by time we reached the Capital steps it was a glorious sunny day, and we stopped again to take in the view. I love DC. I think it's because I never saw it in person until I was 30, only in movies and pictures. And instead of being a let down, it was everything and more than I could've hoped. Much bigger in real life. Breathing, living history. All the barriers and security checks aside, so much it you can walk right up to, touch and smell and feel.

6. June 14th: STOP!

The truck didn't see me in the bike lane in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and the next thing I know I'm on my skinned hands and knees using my tongue to make sure I still have all my teeth. I spent virtually the entire evening at Norwegian Hospital in conditions that made the climatic scene in "Jacob's Ladder" look plush, but in the end I had no broken bones, and even my new racing bike was in perfect condition. The next few days very pretty painful but I was racing again soon enough. I just received my settlement check about 3 weeks ago, however. Ironic considering who I am working for.

Honorable Mention, August 6th: The Orphanage

We played a gig down in the heart of Bridgeport, away from the areas the northsiders only know, west of familiarity, deep in the roots of the southside. There was no booze, no smoke, no noise. Only open minds, artistry, good food, and genuine appreciation.

7. August 23rd:The End of the World

I watched those massive storms that afternoon roll in from the 7th floor of the Wrigley Building. I don't think I've ever seen the sky get blacker and more menacing that fast. Seeing the rain come down that intense and the flags that stiff makes you appreciate the indoors for sure. I'll never forget hearing the sound of that thunder, ripping apart the roiling clouds right on top of the lightning.

8. August 27th: "You're Fired"

Enough said. No, really.

9. September 9th: The Illinois State Team Time Trial Championships, Utica

I have never dug deeper to finish a race than on this day. I won't go into detail since you can read all about it here, but crossing the finish line, I had gained a newfound sense of accomplishment, and pride, in myself and for my teammates. As well as a lesson in not judging a book by its cover. Let's call him Peter (ha ha, Peter). At first he may have rubbed me the wrong way, as normally I'd normally not have much in common with a brash guy like him. Bragging, a lot of swagger (not that he doesn't back it up - 3 wins I think this year?) and not a lot of restraint, shall I say, in public speaking, is a nice way of putting it. He was really jumping at the bit during training and at the start of the race to go fasterfasterfaster. And when I got into trouble at the beginning, I expected he was going to want to move on, leave me to get dropped, to finish as best as possible. Yet, at those darkest moments in the time-trial, gasping into that headwind and redlining, it was Peter who was at my side, drafting for me leeward, and telling me, "it's ok, Brian. We've all been there. Don't feel bad." And then Peter, Jon, and Leonard brought me back and we finished with a very respectable 7th place in the open men's open division. I can't wait to do this race in 2008.

10. September - December: "You're Hired" x 3

There's sort of a lot to this one so I have to lump it all together. Waiting tables and working retail at a presitigous wine store before finally starting my new full time gig has given me a lot of perspective on my life and career choice moving forward (although, obviously not that much since I'm still blogging at work - but really, I am one of 3 people in this entire cube bank this week - this place is a graveyard today). It all really is a balance between play and work, between enjoyment and the recourses you need. That's all I'll really say, but even so, I really enjoyed the change in pace. And by that I mean working for cash and learning a lot more about wine and people.

And for those of you who are still wondering how that bottle of 1986 Chateau Chase-Spleen turned out? Amazing. Here's the thing about pairing wine and food: each should be good enough on it's own. So that when you have the two together, you are struck by the realiztion that something was even missing from either. It should go together like a puzzle piece. And that bottle of wine and beef stew I enjoyed with friends that evening in Evanston was just that. The wine coming apart at the grains just like the beef stew, and those aged, wise tanins just below the surface of the almost disapated acidity meshed oh-so-perfectly with the brown sugar and cinnamon of the gravy.

Thanks 2007. You - and everyone and everything in it - were gravy.

Ciao.

The All-American Boy Series - Part XIII: "The Weekend"

Author's Note: back in my myspace blog days, I had a long running series called the All-American Boy. Basically just funny anecdotes from my life. Everything from a passed field-sobriety test at Damen and Harrison at 4am to my mom's surprise birthday last year. I'll post the previous ones here retroactively soon, but here is a new installment.

A few years ago, I got a call from my brother, telling me he was coming down to visit.

His favorite band of all time, Anthrax, was playing at the House of Blues and he'd just purchased to tickets to the show and airfare to come stay in Chicago for the weekend. He'd be here on a Friday night, the show was on Saturday, and he would stay through Monday. It was to be a weekend I'd never forget, that started innocently enough and became one for the ages.

It started serendipitously enough. I had just started my training to become a Certified Personal Trainer and had also been dating a woman for a few months. The night my brother arrived I'd been out in the far south side, at an airport Hilton by Midway, attending a two-day conference sponsored by NASM as part of my training. The timing couldn't have been more perfect as I left the train to walk to my apartment and my brother called, saying his bus was just about the arrive at the stop I'd given him.

We literally met outside as we both walked up to the iron gate of my building, and hugged, and gave each other all sorts of brotherly greetings. He looked good. He'd always been a big guy since high school. Seeing him there in my living room, tall and broad, grinning above his scraggly long goatee, gave me a warm feeling. The knowledge that we were in for a magical weekend, no matter what happened.

We opened a bottle of wine, cooked a couple of steaks and some veggies, and visited and drank into the night.

I overslept my alarm for the next day's training by Midway - the trip was Red Line to Orange, and then the Hotel Shuttle from Midway. Although since I was late, I grabbed a taxi. During the first break I called Kat, my girlfriend, to let her know the plan for the evening. I was going to be done and back downtown around 6, and I was meeting Duff at the House of Blues for dinner and the show. The weekend had come on so suddenly I wasn't able to give Duff much idea for spending the day in town other than the Museum Campus. But Kat had offered to spend the day with him, so after talking with her, she called him, apparently.

Once I was back downtown and changed, I met them at the HOB restaurant for dinner. Duff had jumped on the Damen bus at Foster and Ashland and met Kat in Roscoe Village at Kitsch-in, a funky little cafe at the corner of Damen and Roscoe. From there they went to the Museum Campus - Duffy was a fish collector at the time and wanted to see the Aquarium - but the line was too long at the Shedd, so I they walked around for bit, hit the Field Museum instead and explored Grant Park.

It was very nice of her, and Duff had a great time. Kat seemed to enjoy his company. He's pretty much a large teddy bear with limited-listening skills, so if I like hanging out with a talker with very good manners open to all options and no where to go, my brother is your date.

After dinner it was time for the show, and Kat agreed to met us later. The crowd there to see Anthrax and Dio was definitely the bands' hardcore fan base. There's a Seinfeldian theory: your manner of dress is from the best year of your life. Once you hit that year, your style - clothes, hair - stayed that way. Apparently 90% of this audience hit that year around 1985. The only thing that changed about their clothes was that they had gotten bigger. These people were so morbidly obese the same audience back when Anthrax was a major act would've been twice as big. Center parts, bleached blonds, and acid washed jean jackets. It was all there.

Three were some hits I remembered. "Spreading the Disease." "I Am The Man." "Antisocial." But there rest was warm-over Nu-Metal that apparently Anthrax wasn't even above copping in order to keep today's generation of lower-IQ music fans at attention. The crowd was wired though, and it helped Anthrax was filming a video. The audience hammed it up with tongues and metal hand-signs.

Dio was about to start, and we weren't about to hang around for that. I'd had enough of the 80's arrested development. I called Kat, let her know we were on our way out and she met us up at a bar I'd worked at a year ago in Lincoln Park, Lilly's Tavern. A dirty, cramped little place, my friends of the band Penthouse Sweets were playing. I'd bartended there a few months there a year ago. It's a rat-infested hole that serves primarily under-age Depaul students $2Bud Light drafts and provides a place to get high upstairs.

Always on the edge of running out of beer because she never paid her suppliers on time, the bar's signature drink was an $8 Long Island Ice Tea that was built like an outhouse. She premixed pitchers of Rum, Vodka, Tequila, Gin, and Triple Sec, and left one on the bar. You simply poured it over a pint glass filled with ice, and topped with lemonade and Coke. She even advertised it in the window as the best deal in Lincoln Park: "8 shots!" It was routine to serve someone three and then have to throw them out. Occasionally someone would think the pitcher was filled with water. The resultant look on their face was worth the wasted liquor.

We stayed for a while, greeting more friends, and watching Lou and Loren play. Duff had settled into a good night of Chicago drinking. He knew everyone's name and appeared to be a Chicagoan through and through. Although, to anyone who would listen, he'd talk non-stop about Alaska We soon decided to move it on up to my neighborhood, and saved the best part of the night for Simon's in Andersonville.

Simon's was my favorite bar in Chicago for years. The clientèle was chill and relaxed, cool and funny. The jukebox had one of the best mixes in the city and there was always a seat. The light is low and it's always inviting, especially at Christmas when they have glog. Duff and I drank Jameson while othere drank cheap beer and we laughed and had a great time until closing. At some point before they chased us out I lost my brother. I assumed he'd cornered somebody to talk at about Alaska. I found him as they were throwing us out, near the front, talking to some long, dark-haired woman. I left him there as Kat and I were going across the street with Nadine so she could give me my birthday present - which had been the week before.

After opening it, I heard by brother's voice from across the street.

"Hey! Where's the Green Mill?"

Kat's face immediately lit up at the prospect of my brother going off with this chick, for him and the fact that we could have my apartment to ourselves for a bit. I told Duff it wasn't far, and even closer to my place. Kat and I went home, and Duff headed off with some pick-up for a classic 5am Chicago night at one of the most famous bars in the city.

Cut to the next morning, around nine. I'm in bed awake, Kat is next to me still asleep. I nudge her. "Did you hear Duff come in?" She just groaned. I got up, fully expecting him to be on the couch as I went to the toilet, but it was empty.

"He's not here yet," as I got back into bed. I wasn't worried, really but my unease grew as the hour went by and no Duff. He'd left his cell phone on my coffee table. I lay there unable to go back to sleep, waiting, until finally I heard the front door click open.

I got up and saw him come in. We stood in the hall, outside of my bedroom, and he told me that after the bar, she'd taken him back to her fathers Wrigleyville condo and they'd fooled around until just after 8, and then he took off. But he had no idea about the bus or train system. He still recognized Addison Street however, so he walked west from Halsted Street all the way to Damen, a mile and a half, to find the Damen bus. Once there he waited another 30 minutes until it arrived. He could've just jumped on the Clark Street bus and been home in 15 minutes.

"Well?" I asked. "Was it worth it?"

He nodded. I laughed, questioningly...

"She let me put it in her butt."

Once I picked myself up off the floor, I went back into the bedroom, and he took a shower. Kat was fully awake now, and her hands were up around her mouth while she giggled like a 10 year old. I knew she was something special when she saw the beauty of my brother getting laid on his trip down here, and even more so for the extra curricular stuff.

She spent the day at home, and Duff and I kicked it down at the Shedd. The line was long, it was worth it, so he could see it all again (we used to visit the Shedd when we were kids like it was going to Church - on family vacations to visit Grandma.) We got home in time to change, and then catch the Red Line down to State and Grand for dinner with the three of us at Shaw's Crabhouse on Hubbard St.

A lot of people like to bag on Shaw's. Sure, it's a Lettuce Entertain You place, essentially a chain. All of their joints are 40's type retro places. But Shaw's is special to me. It's menu is far beyond that of a typical themed restaurant, and really, it's not themed at all. It's a seafood place, with an inviting interior and a menu that changes daily. The waitstaff are incredibly knowledgeable, they know the specials backwards and forwards, and my dining experience there just two weeks prior for a work lunch meeting had me making reservations there again that night.

And miraculously we ended up with the same waiter I had at the working lunch. Who was a big part of the reason I came back. We met after having a cocktail in the bar, and Kat snapped this pic of my bro and I:



We sat down and Michael came over and gave us the spiel. We all ordered drinks, and then Kat ordered salmon, myself the halibut, and Duff, of course, got a 20 ribeye topped with $6 worth of blue cheese. It was a wonderful dinner. Expensive, but worth it to have Duffy there enjoying it with me and Kat. Michael was with us all night long, asking us about Alaska, and making jokes with us. He comped us dessert and a round of drinks, and we gave him nearly a 40% tip.

As we were leaving, Michael came out to thank us, and we told him no problem, it was the topper of a fantastic weekend. My brother clarified: Saw my favorite band, broke a 2 year dry spell...

"And she let me put it up her butt."

Once Michael got up off the floor, he said goodbye and we left.

I said goodnight to Kat and Duff and I went home. He was on a plane the next morning, and the weekend came to a close. But it lasted in my daydreams at work that whole week, and it's repercussions were even felt months later.

Postscript:

The following Valentine's Day. Kat and I are at Shaw's for dinner. Upon arriving at the restaurant, we realize to ask for Michael's section and he's working that night, so there they seat us. After walking with Kat back to our table, I excuse myself to run to the men's room. As I stroll back through the restaurant, I pass Michael, and we recognize each other instantly. After 5 months, he looks me in the eye and says, "Alaska." Upon returning to our table, Michael is sitting there, talking with Kat.

He then told us that he took our story to the entire kitchen, and my brother is probably now the most famous patron in the history of Shaw's Crabhouse.

Ah, the power of a great story.