Nothing Comes Between Me and My Jeff Tweedy

Not even the fact that soon-to-be-ex took his girlfriend to the concert,

or that my date, 6 foot and gorgeous, was my 14-year old daughter.

Not the fact we had to sequester ourselves from our mutual friends at dinner so no one felt awkward. And if I sound bitter here, that's because I am, you mutual friends.

Or the Noodles and Company restaurant which Daughter picked out of all the great places to eat in Ann Arbor.

Or the fact that Noodles and Company doesn't sell alcohol.

Or that Hill Auditorium in The Peoples' Republic of Ann Arbor, home of the Hash Bash, does not sell alcohol.

Nor the fact that even though I ordered tickets the day they went on sale, we were seated in the nose-bleed section.

Yes, the nose-bleed section where people were constantly getting up from their seats and disrupting my view. Yes, those people must have had alcohol which needed removal from their systems.

Damn them.

Nor the fact that I've been separated one year now from soon-to-be-ex and though it was my decision, it's still hard to see "our" favorite band separately. Plus, he got the microbrews. And the girlfriend. And the friends.

Damn you.

But....when My Jeff Tweedy strums on his acoustic and sings, "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," life has meaning.

Nothing or no one comes close.

Well, I guess those guys that Daughter and I visited after the show aren't too bad. That Ben & Jerry. They're okay.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Somebody's Been Playing With My Dolls--And Not In A Good Way

As you may know I have this collection of memorabilia dolls:  

And twice now I've walked into the kitchen to see this:

Was it the Teen? The Ten-Year Old?

It's not that I'm a prude by any means. It's just that Salvador Dali is an old man and Kwepee, just out of diapers. Even that's a little ped-i-verted for this aging Hippie.

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BTW, This weekend is the Ann Arbor Folk Festival starring My Jeff Tweedy of Wilco. If I'm not around much, you'll know I've:





More perversion at Humor-Blogs.

Just One More Damn Thing To Make Me Feel Old

As some of you know, I'm prone to midlife crises. Being told I looked like the wonderful, yet older Susan Sarandon last summer put me into a tizzy.

I suppose some people have a crisis, buy the Boxster or botox--whatever the gender may be--and that's it. Finito.

Yet each time I think I'm coming to terms with my age, something like noticing the start of a double chin or mustache sets me off again. And so it happened once again the other day while being interviewed for a job.

When I was younger, more like the Damn-It-Janet Susan Sarandon,

I taught public high school.  Within a few years, I'd upgraded to teaching at Temple University Japan. Much as Susan upgraded to:

Afterwards, like Susan who took a small step downwards when she made:




I taught at the not-quite-as-prestigious, but still accredited institution of higher learning (whose Rockets football team beat the blue and gold off of the U of M Wolverines last fall) The University of Toledo.  


Once I had babies,  I began freelancing. In not much time I went from local publications to national ones such as Ladies' Home Journal and Woman's Day. And my pay jumped to new levels much like Susan's did with the success of this film:



Four years ago I took a gig doing narrative non-fiction on small school reform for KnowledgeWorks Foundation, with generous support from The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. And like Susan with this movie:



my career reached a new high. Not only was I wined and dined during the gig (thanks Bill) but, along with my colleagues, won two national awards for writing!!!!  Yes, I am entitled to use exclamations marks here.


But according to Doug, Nietzsche says, "That which doesn't kill me, makes me take a nose dive." A few months ago the grant was finito and I started looking for work again.

The other day I had an interview to be a tutor for kids in the projects. (The black supervisor's words, not mine)  Yes, a tutor--not that there's anything wrong with that.

You look really familiar, I told the supervisor.

A lot of people say that, she replied.

But I didn't mean it in that way. She really did look familiar. So we talked about schools she'd attended and discovered she went to a junior high in which I taught, but a few years before I was there.

Still, this plagued me.

I remembered a girl in that junior high who was really enthusiastic about a poetry unit I presented. She was a good writer and we bonded immediately. The more I thought about it, I realized I taught the unit when I was an education student doing field experience, which would put me there at the time she attended.

I searched through my old files and found sample poems from the students. Her poem, signed, was on the first page.

Yep. I was being interviewed by a former student. 

Yep I was offered the job, took the job and am now I'm being supervised by a former student!!!!!  More exclamation entitlement.

Is there anything more...ah, let's see...the word humiliating comes to mind...than working for a former student?

Like the award winning actress Susan Sarandon who signed a deal with Revlon, my career took an age-dive:



I mean, what was next for this Grown-Up-But-Groupie-Like Aging Hippie Wilco-Stalking Couch Surfer prone to midlife crises?

I can only hope it isn't becoming one of these:






Anyway, the following day during orientation I showed the supervisor the poetry, and she lit up like her then 13-year old self.

I remember you!!  (The Black supervisor's exclamation marks, not mine)

You were that teacher!!--the one who did the poetry!!  You were really positive and supportive of my work!! You even gave me a present for being so interested in the poetry!! 

Wow. I don't recall that, I responded.

You know, she said, I began to love writing.  I continued doing it and went on to major in journalism in college.

It was then that I put my current midlife crisis on hold for a moment and beamed just a bit myself.

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A special shout out for my buds who gave me stellar recommendations.

More beaming guaranteed at Humor-Blogs.

Tuesdays With My Card-Carrying Gay Buddhist Buddy (Part Two)

If you’re not up to speed on the story of my Buddhist Buddy’s bear-ish balls accidentally dangling in the face of a tiny Japanese man, scroll down.

Today’s post unfortunately will not be about “bare” anything. Nor show a "bare" anything.

Today’s post is about drugs.

But first, I’d like to say that I in no way mean to stereotype Buddhists here. Buddhists are people, too. In fact Buddhists come in all shapes and sizes.

They can be gay Bears like this guy:




They can be gay Twinkies like this guy:




They can be Straight Studs like this guy claims to be:






They can even be Female Cougars like this very attractive and obviously younger-looking-than-her age woman:




This purpose here is not to make fun of Buddhists, even though their orange dresses make them a perfect target. The point here is to share the wonderful stuff I am learning from one particular Buddhist Buddy.

First off, Buddhist Buddy has taught me that we all have a Self-Desirous nature. And he’s not talking about the kind that makes a person blind. 

He’s speaking of the idea that we think about ourselves first and about what we can do to make ourselves happy. Instead of being attached to our desirous nature, he says, we need to feel compassion towards all people.

Yes, even Dick Cheney.

For example, when someone is suffering, we need to feel, and hopefully act in, a compassionate way towards that person. Basically when others feel pain, we should become one with them and feel their pain. Likewise, when others feel joy, we should become one with them and feel their joy.

Having the nature of a Hippie Chick I’m totally digging this line of thought.

I’ve also learned from Buddhist Buddy that life is suffering and the only way to escape from it is to work with one’s own mind.

And though Buddy is a devote Buddhist who takes his practice very seriously, he admits that other things can help with suffering as well.

Yes, Buddhist Buddy is a card-carrying recipient of medical Mary Jane.




He lives in the great state of California, and while they oddly aren’t on board with gays and lesbians getting married and allowing them to be as miserable as the rest of us married folk, they have seen the light of the medicinal wonders of this herb.

I’ve learned that there are clubs dispensaries where one goes to get the herb. Big comfortable sofas, H-D movie screens and of course, all the baked goods one could ever hope for.

Buddhist Buddy, who does indeed have a legit reason for needing this herb, tells me one doesn't have to smoke the herb the old fashioned way, for that would truly be unhealthy. One can simply buy the flour, the cooking oil, and treats such as candy and lollipops:





And even soda drinks--because let's face it, due to the climate there are a lot of dry mouths in California:





The more Buddy described these clubs dispensaries, a idea began to bud in my mind.

Now it’s well known that this Hippie Chick is a Wilcohead—Wilcoheads are the new Deadheads.

In two weeks I will see My Jeff Tweedy of Wilco headline the Ann Arbor Folk Festival.

What, I thought, if there were a way to do something special at the concert so I could feel compassion and oneness with all the suffering people in the economically-depressed state of Michigan. And with all the suffering people in the great state of California (where the increase of reports of nauseousness is now at epidemic proportions)?

And what if I could figure out at way to feel the joy and oneness with all the other Wilcoheads of the World?

And at the same time satisfy my chocolate or sweet tooth?

That would be like, so, groooovy.

Why I could share cannabis brownies or peanut butter cups or flavored lollipops with the whole crowd!!!  It would be like a Hip Halloween Happening.

I could. I could. I think I could.

But no.


I quickly came down to Earth.

My state of Ohio, having always felt compassion towards Dick Cheney, has only just become a blue state. Medical Mary Jane is a ways down the long and winding road.

There are no cannabis treats to be found here.

It seemed if I really wanted to become one and share the joys and pains with others at the concert, it would have to be the old-fashioned way:




But once again I realized my delusion.

Why, you say? I thought you were Hippy Chick Extraordinnaire? Why couldn't you indulge the old-fashioned way?

Yes, of course. Of course. But you see, this:





as some of you know, is the leaf of an Ohio buckeye tree.

Which is the mascot of The Ohio State Buckeyes.

Which are the arch rivals of The University of Michigan Wolverines.

Which is in Ann Arbor.

And even though Ann Arbor is home to the Hash Bash, if this Hippie Chick were to light up a leaf of an Ohio buckeye at the Ann Arbor Folk Festival, she would no longer be a Wilcohead.

She’d be a Deadhead.

And a Deadhead who hadn't yet reached enlightenment at that!



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A special shout out for Muskrat for loaning me his snuggie photo and my Bestest Buddhist Buddy whom I love more than Buddha and JC himself.  John Cusack, that is.



STAY TUNED: Tuesdays With my Other Buddhist Buddy--the Straight One.


There are lots more gays and breeders at Humor-Blogs.

My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad New Year's Revelation

Checking out my stats the other day I was delighted to see that people are actually reading this blog.   So I did my Hippie Happy Dance--think Martha Graham to a feedback-y Wilco song.

But upon closer inspection I found out that many of them simply landed here by typing keywords into Google.  

Here's the key words that got people to my fantasy life:

Psycho women pussy good

Couch surfing sexy Susie

Susan Sarandon hot You Tube

Biggest teen mammaries

Mommy mammaries

Cut her mammaries

Breastfeeding nursing fantasies

Best teen celeb cleavage

Skinny dip

I love daddy fantasy

Biggest communes in the US

Virgin looses her cherry

Fantasy eat semen  

For the record I have never blogged about semen. I only mentioned semen in passing because that's what Chris Wood got Diesel for Christmas.  The other stuff--sex, mammaries, communes, Susan Sarandon, couch surfing--guilty as charged.

Yet I am nothing if not an introspective blogger, so when I took those and other key words such as beer, Xanax, Vicodin, and Jeff Tweedy lyrics into account, I had a realization.

And it's not pretty.

All this time I thought I was just a Hip Mommy Blogger.  

No.

Turns out my whole blog is about Sex and Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll!

Please Help.

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Stay tuned for more S & D & R & R when I reveal my top ten bloggy crushes.

posted at Humor-Blogs.

If I'm a Hippie, I'm a Hi-Tech One

According to the comments on my previous post it seems I am a Hippie because what?

I skinny dip?

I couch surf?

I make my kids walk to school?

OK. OK. That's groovy.

So I guess it won't surprise you that like any Hippie worth their weight in tie dye, I'm going to the Ann Arbor folk festival this month.

Headliners on Saturday are Pete Seager and Kris Kristofferson (hey, remember he wrote "Me and Bobby McGee" and "Help Me Make It Through the Night").

But really, I'M NOT THAT MUCH OF A HIPPIE that I need to see Pete Seeger and the dude forever stamped in my mind as the guy making out with Barbara Striesand.

No. I'm going on Friday night when the headliner is My Jeff Tweedy. Yep, if you've been here before you know that I'm a bit of a Wilcohead. And if you're new around here, meet My Jeff Tweedy:




And I must make a confession. I AM THAT MUCH OF A HIPPIE that I will be participating in the time-honored tradition of showing one's ultimate gratitude for the performance. I mean, it will be Jeff Frickin' Tweedy!

Only instead of a lighter, This Hippie will be using her Teen's I-Pod Touch:











You see, I am nothing if not a WITH IT Hippie.

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Stay tuned for This WITH IT Hippie's top ten bloggy crushes

Most of whom can be found at Humor-Blogs.

Pre Post Election Blues

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Teen and Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll

What was I thinking taking Teen to the Virgin Music Fest? I know what I was thinking: Jeff Tweedy.

What I wasn’t thinking was how to explain the zonked out woman the ambulance was taking away.

Ah, it’s clearly sunstroke, I said. Way too hot out here.

Or...ooh, ooh that smell, the smell that surrounds us.

Patchouli Oil, I said. All these tye dyers wear it.

But isn’t it coming from those funny-looking cigarettes being passed around? Teen asked.

Cloves, I replied. All these Rastas smoke them.



Yes, I know, I need to have the drug talk with Teen soon.

BUT I WASN'T GOING TO EXPLAIN IT WHILE WE BOTH WE'RE UNDER A CONTACT HIGH.

And then there was this drunk-out-of-his mind dude:



He’s obviously ‘special’, I said.

In fact, it seemed all the folks there were 'special" as evidenced by their use of these porta-potties:



They were the first ever I’d seen full to the rim and over-flown, with drunk high hippie-rasta folks continuing to use them without a care in the world.

I hadn’t seen so many wasted people since a Russian-Polish wedding.

OK. OK. It was an Irish wake.

Still…$95.00 bucks a ticket and you’re passed out before the main acts.

OK. OK. The slam dancers were definitely not passed out.

I mean, it’s not that Teen hasn’t been to concerts before.

I believe in raising a kid right.

Meaning he’s got to know that Neil Young is great and that Neil Diamond sucks.
That Pink Floyd is great and that Pink sucks.
That John Lennon is great and that John Mayer, is well, mediocre.

Yes, teen has seen Neil Young, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, and against his classic rock will, Black 47 and Wilco.

The difference between those events and this one is --that the folks at the former venues were actually there to hear the music!!

At any rate, Teen and I were there to hear Wilco again.

OK. OK. Teen did want to sneak over to the other stage to catch Chuck Berry. But like I said, I believe in raising a kid right. He would not be Wilcoless.

So we ‘excuse me’, ‘excuse us’, ‘be careful your cigarette is burning my arm-ed’ our way to the front of the crowd.

We were not disappointed.




Wilco was Wilcoful.

And after, Teen was excited to see Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters.

But Teen knows that Dave Matthews is great and Dave Grohl is, well...

OK. OK. they’re both ah...all right. Grohl can drop the F-bomb, spit into the audience and whirl his hair around with the best of them.

All in all, despite the hopped up people, the herbs, the overflowing porta-potties, and this Jägermeister dude:



It was a good time. A mom and son bonding time.




And speaking of bonding...

I’d like to thank Restless Housewife Rambling for this most excellent award.



I am honored and therefore will bestow (I always wanted to use that word) to the following:

1) Jen at Daily Mish Mash, my sista in stalking.

2) Suzie at Up The Hill Backwards, my sista in education.

3) Unfinished Dude at Unfinished Rambling(s) who next to his Wife , his Sister, and Diesel, Brent, Damon, Lobo and all my female friends is my favorite blogger.

Seriously, for a Catholic, the guy blogs funny. He doesn’t drop the F-bomb or make fun of people like a lot of other Humor-Bloggers.

OK. OK. He doesn’t drop the F-bomb anyway.



And Neil Diamond fans, no hate mail please. Been there. Done that.

OK. OK. It was those gunsling Charlton Heston fans. But still….

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VISIT Humor-Blogs and REGISTER. CLICK. VOTE.

Stalking Once Removed

While spending a week at Rehoboth beach I bribed my kids to be on the lookout for Jeff Tweedy of Wilco. Be assured they all know what he looks like--every time they open my laptop they are forced to see his beautiful face.



You see, in a few days Tweedy would be performing at the Virgin Music Festival in Baltimore. It seemed likely he might put in some family time at the shore. I mean, wouldn't you knowing what you know about Rehoboth?



Whilst you think this is another one of Meg’s far-fetched notions—yes, Meg has a lot of them--this is who Teen saw in Funland on the Rehoboth boardwalk:



Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters, who was also scheduled for the Virgin Fest. Grohl was spotted, says Teen with a very small boy.

Me the Mom Who Never Lets a Learning Opportunity Escape: Small boy. Ha! See what happens to your children when you lead a life of drugs and debauchery.

Smarta*s Teen: It could be that the kid was small because he was two-years old.



Anyway, no luck with Tweedy.

Clearly as a stalker I SUCK big time. Meaning I have to resort to Stalking Once Removed.

Here is a guy Sister-in-Law The Busy-Body saw on a film location near her small town:




Sister-in-Law The Prudish Critical Busy-Body: Clooney is much smaller in real life and doesn't hold much interest to me anymore.

Me The Healthy Female: But is he small where it counts?


Here is a guy who Dancer Turned Chauffer Driver Friend shuttled around in Toronto:



It's Gael Garcia Bernal, star of Babel and The Motorcycle Diaries and the sexist, I MEAN SEXYIST, where are you Editor Lady when I need you, guy on Earth (except for Tweedy).


Chauffeur Guy: There were about 20 Mexicans in the limo with Bernal all drinking some funky alcohol tequila concoction.

Me The Non-Judgemental: And you didn't call me?



Here is a singer that Sister-in-Law The Show Off’s Brother’s family begged to pose with them.

Yes, I am so pathetic that I Stalk Twice Removed. I do not know these people, in fact, I hardly know Fergie:



Me The Cultural Bafoon: Isn't Fergie that Weight Watcher Princess Lady? She looks pretty good.

Sister-in-Law The Prudish Accountant: How many have you had?


Of course, I didn’t always suck. When I was younger my friend and I saw THIS GUY through a restaurant window in Toronto. We waited and waited and were finally rewarded.



Me the Excited Healthy Teen: I can't believe we recognized him without his makeup.

My Mom Who Loves To Rub Stuff In: I can't believe you made me go up and ask to take his picture.


But I'm going back to Toronto this September for the Toronto International Film Festival. Anyone along the way is welcome to stalk with me or at least meet me for a drink or three.

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I suck at stalking, don't let me suck at Humor-Blogs. Click and vote for this post.


STAYED TUNED: MEG AND SMARTA*S TEEN DO THE VIRGIN MUSIC FESTIVAL

I Say, Let Them Be As Miserable As The Rest Of Us

Gays, that is. If they think being married is so special, I've got some land I'd like to sell them along the Mississippi. I mean, as far as I'm concerned everyone has the right to be stupid and miserable and married. But it seems a group of Republicans don't agree.

This week they re-introduced the Federal Marriage Amendment to the Constitution which essentially says that marriage is between a man and a woman, which essentially excludes marriage between those who pee the same way, which essentially means by prohibiting gays from marrying, Republicans are actually promoting premarital sex.

But that's not the odd thing.

Supporters of the bill include Senators David Vitter (R-LA) and Larry Craig (R-Idaho). Remember them? Vitter hired prostitutes and Craig was caught soliciting gay sex in an airport. Not actually poster boys for the sanctity of marriage between two people who pee differently.




I mean, this kind of stuff is why I Prefer My Fantasy Life folks. And why I prefer those Humor Blogs.

Finding Humor in Match.com is Like, So Yesterday

A better way to amuse oneself, if one doesn’t have guilt ignoring one’s family for a few hours, is songmeanings.net. This interactive site allows idiots people to write their interpretations of songs and basically quibble with other mind readers over how whacked some of these interpretations are.

To conclude Wilco Week, I’m posting the lyrics to Theologians followed by snippets of meaning from those with more time, more youth, more insight, and possibly more drugs than most of us.

My Teen would argue that ratemyteachers.com is more interesting, but I’m personally fascinated by the discussion of whether the song is religious in the sense of Jesus, or anti-religious in the vein of Nietzche, or philosophical in the vein of Henry Miller. Or, if the song is really a metaphor for the critics and the music industry.

Not to mention the dispute over what ‘inlitterati lumen fidei’ or ‘cherry ghost’ actually mean.

Here are two versions. The first is a Wilco live version. The second is a Jeff Tweedy solo.



Watch this one and you will understand why both guys and gals love this man.



Theologians

They don't know nothing
About my soul
About my soul

I'm an ocean
An abyss in motion
Slow motion
Slow motion

Inlitterati lumen fidei
God is with us everyday
That illiterate light
Is with us every night

Theologians
That don't know nothing
About my soul
Oh they don't know

They thin my heart with little things
And my life with change
Oh in so many ways
I find more missing every day

Theologians

I'm going away
Where you will look for me
Where I'm going you cannot come

No one's ever gonna take my life from me
I lay it down
A ghost is born
A ghost is born
A ghost is born

I'm an ocean
I'm all emotion
I'm a cherry ghost
Cherry ghost

Hey I'm a cherry ghost
A cherry ghost


AND NOW FOR THE INFINITE WISDOM

-I believe the "where I'm going you cannot come" is similar to something Jesus said, so if you follow it logically, Jesus "lays down his life" and "a ghost is born".

-However, if Jeff is remaining "himself" and not talking from the perspective of Jesus, it's his (literal or figurative) death, and an otherworldly new "life" that follows.

-I just looked at the lyric sheet in the CD and it actually says "I'm a notion, I'm all emotion" for the last few lines. I guess the idea of being a notion is just more transcendentalism or escapism.

-"Cherry ghost" I figured to mean the blood of Christ.

-What he's trying to say; no matter how brilliant someone is, they won't ever know all that you have inside of you - it's unique only to you, especially if you want to mask it. Jeff has an obsession with being true to his soul

-inlitterati lumen fidei means like false light or something,

-I'm pretty sure it means "illiterate, faithful light" –

-I also wonder about the color symbolism between the songs. If uncaring cities are chrome and the devil is also chrome and not red, then the red color is NOT the color of the devil, so when he becomes "a cherry [red] ghost" in "Theologians", he is not evil, amoral, or unfeeling, he is something else. figuratively like it, so that's why he's a "cherry ghost" instead of a red ghost--the color symbols would get mixed up.

-Basically the red color symbolism enhances the transcendentalism of "Theologians" and the innocence of "Hell is Chrome".

-He is shedding his old self, the drugs and alcohol, and now is born new. Now, he is a cherry (happy....that may be a stretch) ghost.

-My take on "cherry ghost" is cherry as in happy - cherry as in new, unblemished. Like a new car is cherry, or a virgin loses his/her cherry.

-Jeff has said that 'cherry ghost' was a metaphor for leaving a sweet memory.

-Inlitterati lumen fidei means Faith illuminates the illiterate.
I love the song. Jeff Tweedy is a theologian.

-I'm pretty sure the phrase 'illiterati lumen fidei' means 'the light of uneducated faith.'

-As an atheist, I view this song a little differently. I see it as someone having religion forced upon them against their will and rather than lose their identity and life, they "lay it down."

-I think all the religious connotations in this song make that explanation a bit TOO obvious.

-The theologians in this case could very well be music critics, self-appointed fan experts,...anyone who pass judgement on what's "good" and "bad" music,

-Maybe this is just me being ignorant, but is it a theologians job to know about each individual's soul and their relationship with god?

-"Inlitteratum lumen fidei" means "the illiterate (or generally ignorant) light of faith".

-Oh, I think that this is not a religious song at all. No, it's just the opposite. It's the anti-religion song, in the way of Nietzche's ideas.

-This song, I believe, follows in the vein of Henry Miller's philosophies on theology and those who think they know everything about spirituality and God and souls. The cherry ghost thing is the indicator that he's joking about his messianic allegory.

-"Inlitterati lumen fidei" is incorrect Latin...


For more Music Monday, visit Soccer Mom in Denial. For more incorrect Latin, visit Humor-Blogs. For more Wilco, scroll down.

Couch Surfing, Chicago Style

Consider the context: Suburban Mom (sexy and mysterious with groupie-like tendencies) taps into kids’ community college fund for a bajillion dollar scalper’s ticket on eBay to see the band Wilco whom she’s seen twice already in the last six months and I mean, she has to cut back somehow. So she Couch Surfs.

Now the average Couch Surfer is closer in age to my kids and writes in their profiles stuff like “self discovered and discovering, ready to be inspired and inspire.”

I sought out someone a bit closer to my mother’s age.

And out of the 1,456 registered Couch Surfers in Chicago, yes people it is an organization, I found a married couple right in the middle.

As I read their profiles, I almost had a heart attack. OMG! She’s a published writer! And I'm a published writer! She’s reading the Egger’s book! And I'm reading the Egger's book! He organizes a film festival! And I go to film festivals! He loves Kieslowski movies! And I love Kieslowski! And they live near Lake Shore Drive! And (I'm guessing) they know the cool places to get coffee! And hear blues! And meet Jeff Tweedy after the show!

How cool is that?

I arrive in Chicago early and head to the Art Institute. To kill some time before meeting my new best friends, I take pictures of art.



And people looking at art.



And sculptures.




And the reflection of myself looking at sculptures.



I phone my new Best Friends and talk to Film Guy. “Just have the person at the desk ring us when you get here, and we'll come down to meet you.”

OMG! They have a person at the front desk! This is somehow more intriguing than a black lab at the front door.

I get off the El and walk to the hotel; it’s called the Chelsea Hotel—how cool is that? I enter and am followed in by a homeless guy. We walk up to the front desk. The clerks give him a granola bar. I look behind the desk and see boxes and boxes of granola bars. I look around. It's a casual place with people sitting in the lobby playing guitars.

I mean, really, how cool is that?

Writer Woman appears in the lobby and gives me a hug. She leads me through a large kitchen/dining area. Behind a counter drying dishes I spot a guy in dreadlocks and a leather pirate hat. He has the leather vest, the leather pants, the chains wrapped around his boots, and the tattoos. Near him I see a woman in a corseted dress. She, too, has the tattoos, but her hair is magenta.

How cool is ….wait a minute…

"Ah, are those real taxidermied rodents hanging from her hair?" I ask Writer Woman.

"Yes," she whispers. "She always wears them--gets them on eBay, I think."

“Interesting. Ah, just wondering...what kind of place is this exactly?" I say.

This is her exact straight-faced reply: “Oh, we’re a commune. But we’re not weird or anything.”

Writer Woman leads me up the steps to the fourth floor. We dodge the bicycles, strollers and Fisher Price toys that carpet the narrow hallways, as well as the exposed electrical wiring hanging from the ceiling.

Once in the apartment I am introduced to Film Guy. I sit down on a wooden bench and look around. There’s a chair, a desk, a hot plate and a small ladder leading to a loft. It takes a few moments to realize that this is it. That tonight I’ll be sleeping on a church pew in a dorm room.

"Oh, you won’t be staying here," Writer Woman says, noticing my look of concern. "Emily down the hall has a softer couch. But she lives with a white rabbit who watches Dawson’s Creek. Is that OK?"

"Ah, sure. Gotta love that Katie Holmes." I turn to Film Guy, "So, what kind of film festival do you organize?"

"It’s a part of a large Christian Music Festival we hold in the summer."

"Oh." Christian. Swallow. Music. Hard.

I take out the CD mixes I brought as gifts and scan the titles. Christian Music. Hmm. The first song is ‘Godless’ by the Dandy Warhols. And then there’s a song by the Brian Jonestown Massacre called 'Prozac Vs. Heroin'. Then there’s a song by Steve Earle written from the perspective of the American Tailban member, that says something like Jesus is the infidel.

"Ah..." Swallow. Hard. Again. "I’m not sure these CDs qualify as Christian music."

"Oh, don’t judge us," says Film Guy. "We’re versatile. Our ministry has all kinds of people in it."

"Your ministry?"

"Yes," Writer Woman answers. "We’re The Jesus People. We formed in 1972 out of the hippie movement. In fact, there are 450 of us in this building. We’re the largest commune in the US."

And then I heard a loud pop. It was my fantasy--these folks would not know where Jeff Tweedy hangs after the show.

But they were great. And we had a great conversation and great goulash in the communal dining area with more dreadlocks then I’d seen at a recent ska festival.

And the concert venue was a three-minute walk from their apartment. Although they didn’t know any place to get a micro-brewed beer, they told me that the Green Mill Lounge was one block up from the theatre.

The Green Mill Lounge. That sounds familiar. OMG! Wait a minute! Isn’t that where….yes, that’s where John Cusack has a drink in High Fidelity!!

Of course, Wilco was great. I was standing in a crowd six feet from My Jeff Tweedy and I loved every minute of it (except when he dedicated a song to his wife).



Afterwards, I went to the Green Mill and had a drink. But alas, another failed stalking attempt. No Johns anywhere (inside the bar, that is).

But hey, I was in Chicago. And returning to a soft couch and a white rabbit. I mean, how friggin' cool is that?

For songs by My Jeff Tweedy, scroll down two posts. For more dreadlocks, check out Humor-Blogs.