Spent Friday night on the north side, surrounded by people I didn't know and noise. Good noise.
Invited by a fan of my rock column to a party, cheap beer and many new names. People playing UNO and Grand Theft Auto. But after midnight, music took over.
A guy named Rich invited me into his bedroom, where I took up a Squire Stratocaster and he an off-brand acoustic and we jammed to "Glycerine," "Say It Ain't So," "Back in Black," "Love Reign O'er Me," and a few Santana songs.
Meanwhile, out in the dining room, the video games and cards were put away and some beats were put on a tape deck. Freestyle rap. Hip-hop words about hanging out and being better than everyone else.
Back to the guitars, a weird kid in a baggy shirt and pink hat came and did some freestyle rhymes to our guitar rhythms.
The night nearly ended with a very strange rendition of Enrique Inglasias' "Hero," sung by everyone.
On Saturday,I was at the Griffin with another friend. They always seem to play good music at that bar, on the jukebox.
Somewhere, the conversation turned to relationships and how and why they don't last, shouldn't last, won't last, can't last. I told my friend my problem: Too often, I base my idea of what a relationship should and can be on songs, where things are always romantic and grandiose.
Reality never lives up to that, I told her, and when that happens, it's like that sad, sinking, void feeling you get when you're and kid d you find out that Santa Claus doesn't exist. A love life is like finding out over and again that Santa isn't real.
That awful and venomous truth has rung loud in my head ever since, and probably will all week.
Music is everywhere.
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