I shit you not, stomping around a friend's kitchen in 1991, long hair flailing, un-ironic flannels, boys and girls blending together, me DJing with cassette tape and blasting "Searching With My Good Eye Closed" and feeling invincible and like the world was fucking ours. OURS.
1992 at Tinley Park with even longer hair screaming "OUTSHINED OUTSHINED OUTSHINED" into I don't even know whose face.
Then—lost the plot. What the fuck? "Black Hole Sun" puts me to sleep.
Years later. Just moved back into Chicago. Run into the band at Danny's and dance-offs and long, drawn out discussions of Barry White bootlegs ensue and everything is right again.
And then, just no.
Then, conflicted. (And my take NOT well received by fans.)
Then the last time I saw him just fuck yes, again. I could feel my hair creep down my neck as those flannel sleeves cinched my waist. One of the last remaining old school primal rock forces.
These are the things I'll remember.
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