Note: Photos in this essay depict re-enactments of actual events, not the events themselves.
Thursday, July 12
McCaskill picked me up at my folks’ house at 9PM. We weren’t planning to leave Jackson until about 1 or 2AM, but we’d decided to hang out a while and say goodbyes because, naturally, we may never come back.
Instead of going to the bar, for obvious reasons, we opted for dinner. Regardless, as with alcohol, we are both bottomless pits for food. The meal was uneventful, save for the fact that our waitress had apparently served McCaskill once before, and had taken offense to a conversation about foreskins. Despite this, the food was palatable and (hopefully) spit-free.
Although I can’t say that I care much for The Police‘s brand of pseudo-white-reggae, I have to say that they can put on one Hell of a show.
photo by T. Loper
We drove to D.C. on a whim, twelve hours each way on 95, for Califone‘s show at the Rock and Roll Hotel. Highway barbecue, coffee, a night in South Carolina where “Deluxe” still describes cheap motels. Slither on HBO. North to President Inn (‘s not included) on New York Avenue near the arboretum. Capital Dome: I bare my ass to it in the window, more than they deserve, and Amy and I head out. The neighborhood is depressed, restaurants all closed or takeout Chinese or ff chain. We eat shrimp lo mein and fried rice and walk to the club.
photo by The Evil Angel
If you like Wilco‘s music even a little, you need to see them before Jeff Tweedy retires. They combine seemingly boundless enthusiasm for playing with impeccable style and great talent.
photo by littlepretty
As my two friends and I walked from Union Station to the Chicago Theater on Saturday, I observed to them that the diversity of people in Chicago had lessened to almost nothing as we got closer to the Arcade Fire show; the wide variety of the larger population had narrowed to only include the easily-excited “scene” kids gathered outside.