OLD WORLD UNDERGROUND WHERE ARE YOU NOW? part 4; or, HOW TO PREDICT A RIOT

after the pre-party, dinner and digestifs, there wasn't any question that it was time to go out for a beer. and although a pint (or two) of anti-hero would probably have been better suited to the tenor of the weekend as it had begun (and had been planned to continue), the revolution taproom was well out of walking distance from downtown, and it probably would have been closed by the time we were able to make it there otherwise (if it weren't closed already). haymarket, however, wasn't too far, and our hope for its association with a bit of radical history had its own special appeal. too bad, unfortunately, that the pub and brewery seemed only to have been named for the neighborhood, the name of which didn't seem to connote much anymore. i flicked off a taxi. there was a wait if we wanted a table, but we could seat or stand ourselves anywhere we wanted in either of the bars. at the end of the hallway with the windows that give onto the brewing tanks there's a quote from brecht. "theater without beer is just a museum." go left to the bathrooms; the bar is to the right. and although there's a bookcase full of books on political economy and performance next to a battlement of mixing boards and other sound equipment, the people in the bar (and in the adjacent second dining room) are all acting in a different play. in which the high school cafeteria gets off work and goes for drinks, as the poet observed. so a single beer each was all of the show we could take.

in the morning, the race was run without event. or: there was the event itself, with more than a few of the participants running to wrigley field for boston, but there weren't any bombs. we screamed, drank our complimentary kefir smoothies, and left. myopic books appeared to have disappeared or relocated by the afternoon, so there were three dollar breakfast cocktails under the damien stop of the blue line. there was ladieswear and there were art books. the illustration for which the artist hadn't been paid was just out in the magazine that i wouldn't buy for twenty-five dollars. i might have stolen it if i hadn't respected the mission and the mainstay of quimby's. i did want it, because it probably won't see an issue two. but... or, then again, i'd probably just gone soft, like wicker park. and the bloody marys couldn't have been very strong, because after three i was still well on my way to lake view. powell's didn't have either of the books i had wanted, but, luckily, they'll always have something i want. when it was time to meet for dinner, i'd been lost for long enough that i felt completely renewed. some respite. some sweet potato fries, a feast of seitan, and a vegan milkshake. afterwards, the one of the book stores we'd planned to visit on broadway was closed, but all of the design firms turned coffee shops and coffee shops turned designer were still doing their things, the thing that everyone's doing. and if i hadn't been encouraged to make good on my talk about crashing the wedding, i probably would have just put myself to bed.

so i went back to the room to change instead. and in the time it took my hair to dry i picked up the party where we'd left it to chase our disappointment in haymarket. then i went to dance, but my heart wasn't it. the high school cafeteria off for the weekend and come to pat backs around the open bar. and i was too full for cake. but worse, when i left the ivy room to pick up the glitter trail (to the fun to which i should have acceded on my way to dinner) i couldn't find a trace of it anywhere. so i helped a kid from pilsen find his way to where his cousin's boyfriend was spinning instead. and then i smiled as i was leaving the restroom and said that i'd had enough to want any cocaine. with the glitter trail lost, the city was the freehold of the closeted judges and the horny nows. until someone threw a bomb. and the sirens screamed. and a taxi swerved. and i flicked it off. then the driver rolled down his window and complimented my suit, to which unexpected approbation i responded by stepping back up onto the curb and dropping my pants. curtains! then, out of his cab now, he handed me a beer. here's to hoping! because otherwise it's all just a museum.

LET THEM SUCK LEMONS, A HOW TO; or, QUÉ HA PASADO CON EL COMUNISMO, REVIVAL

we're talking behind the dumpster that's next to the garage across the alley from the apartment because the wind has picked up. although the winter storm hasn't come through yet on its promise of snow, at least the rain has stopped. it might be snowing if it hadn't though, because it's definitely getting colder. and the wind makes our sense of it worse. but we have the dumpster to shelter us from the full force of the wind, which we'd gone out into in order to shelter ourselves, momentarily, from the party. in such a litigious society, it's cruelly ironic that a lawyer wouldn't encourage his client to sue the local police department -- if not for a violation of due process, then at least for the damage to his client's property -- just because he'd already dispatched himself of his obligation to defend that client against his d.u.i. charge. doesn't she agree? but those people (in clark county, i think it was) just live differently, the lawyer turned real estate agent had said. (the system works!) this is what we're talking about behind the dumpster. this and other systemic wastes. she'd found the light box that they'd rigged with flashing christmas lights for the party in the alley the day she arrived. at the thrift stores we visited the evening of that same day she had bought a rocking chair upholstered in vinyl for her host and the pogo stick that we'd used later in the park. we'd already put the chair and the unicorn print in his apartment and were in the park waiting for the word to go pick him up. she'd also gotten a german wall scale for ninety cents, but had passed on each of the pairs of red motorcycle boots that we'd seen at both stores. behind the dumpster i tell her that i'm happy that she decided to visit. i'm happy to have met her. i'm only wearing a light sweater and i'm cold, but if i catch cold i can just follow her example. "lemon sucking now hailed by science as influenza cure," goes the title of one of the articles on the front page of a los angeles evening herald from october, 1918. maybe that's why she always has one in her pocket ready to suck. but the habit isn't good for her teeth. (without insurance, which way would be the wrong way to go?) she says that she's happy to have met me too, and if i want i can stay at her apartment in humboldt park while i'm in chicago between the holidays. she'll give me a key. from what she says (and what i've already gathered), i should be excited to see how she's decorated. she has a good eye, and she says she has a great collection. it's only possible to work as a floriculturist during the spring, summer and fall, so she has all winter to browse estate sales. her apartment is in the puerto rican neighborhood, she says; and i say like that part of brooklyn, until it went the way of wicker park. i haven't been to chicago in two decades, so i don't really know if that's accurate. but i have been to williamsburg, and she says that's where her sister lives. the muses: by all accounts they're an interesting bunch. i'd known before tonight that this one liked alleys and dumpsters. the issue of wisconsin swingers that's inside the apartment came from the dumpster of a half priced books. what do you get for the girl who can find everything. cigarettes. there's that. then i remember having seen a vodka beverage called sucking lemons at a bc liquor store and think that i could try to find her one to leave at her apartment as a gift. she doesn't drink, but she does suck lemons. i think that she'll think that it's funny. if i can tell her that i got it at a drive thru it will be even better. they apparently don't have those in chicago or milwaukee, and when i took her to the one across from the salvation army thrift store in merion village she'd been uncommonly impressed. she'd bought a tiny bag of candy corn and a packaged carrot cake. (the peasants have no bread!). i don't know if i'll actually end up staying at her apartment, but i accept her offer. just say yes, i think, because that's what makes life interesting, and now that's exactly what we're talking about behind the dumpster as the wind picks up again.