Shit has been bananas even as it creeps along at a narcoleptic snail's pace.

I am back from my yearly sojourn to Chicago's Pitchfork Music Festival, and its attendant 5-day bender. Here's my stolen press pass.

It scored me exactly 1 (one) free Fuze. I had to walk up to the press tent, wearing my stolen press pass, and walk up to the tables full of press-type people, and reach under the table into a bucket full of ice. I was just loaded enough to have the requisite bravery, but I also crept past that point of loadedness into the jittery, delusionally hyperselfconscious loadedness that makes you think every time you do something wrong SWAT is going to crash in through the windows and Mace you in the nuts. It's the first thing I've stolen in a while -- since I didn't actually steal the press pass, somebody else stole it and then gave it to me, and that shit don't count -- and, all things considered, a Fuze was the perfect choice. I got my heartrate up -- especially when I made eye contact with the pretty girl in a staff shirt who I thought was going to bust me, which brought back blood-curdling memories of the time I spray-painted "Center School Sucks" on the brick facade of my elementary school, and then was caught by a lady teacher because I wore cowboy boots and skidded on some gravel during my getaway -- and then I soothed myself with an icy, fruity, absolutely free beverage. Why am I not sorry? Because they stopped selling three-day passes, which "sold out," so I had to buy passes for all three days separately, which came all connected, almost as if they were a single, three-day ticket. So, if you want to get technical, that Fuze ended up costing somewhere in the neighborhood of $40, which means Pitchfork should get down on its knees and kiss my Mace-burned balls. Though, a photographer friend did steal me quite a bit of beer from the backstage area. So maybe it's a wash. After drinking said beer, I was drunk, which caused me to do things like try to take candid shots of unsuspecting girls who I thought may or may not have been pretty and were walking ahead of me towards the train. The result is a surprisingly realistic depiction of what I felt like after seeing Animal Collective (and drinking free beer).

This is the only one I took, because an overpowering wave of creepiness washes over you when you take a picture like this. You look at yourself, and you say "Really? Really?"

I'm going to try to start writing more short posts. I've been psyching myself out with the blog lately, looking at it as a commitment. And the thing in the world I least like to perform are commitments. So I am artificially cutting this one short, with the best intentions.

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