Even though released nearly a year before I moved, I swear I heard it in those earliest cab rides and blaring in bars I didn't know were shitty yet. God, I can just hear the beats coming out all tinny on a pre-digital (right, in 1998?) jukebox, or in someone's upper or lower in a two-flat on the thousandth Lakeview street that looks like another, and feel my throat raked by trying to talk over it with...whoever. Maybe it was the guy who I met at a party I went to with Margaret in Roscoe Village...or Lakeview (Ashland to my left, Brown line tracks behind me, gonna say it was on Marshfield?) in October 1998. The next week, he took me to dinner at some retro-supper club type place down on Milwaukee between Augusta and Chicago, right past the moaning expressway, and, after ordering pork chops with lip-smacking delight, sent them back because they were somehow wrong.
God, I used to know why, because I told this story about him with lip-smacking delight since I hadn't really hung out with people who could afford to send expensive food back and had never met a free buffet they didn't like (actors and guys in bands, right?).
But I don't remember why, and he and his name and everything except his short temper (and possibly general shortness) has left me.
Eh. What matters is then, when everything was new, and how that felt. Everything gamely accepted: that this dude could be cute, the Hidden Shamrock is a good bar, and that I enjoy this metallic-sounding Jay-Z song.
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