Tack it onto the era of nostalgia we live in, but every day of weather in Chicago has a works like a historical set piece doesn’t it? Those early mornings when the wind is spitting snow crystals into your face like a jilted lover — that’s late-80s Seattle grunge. Days when the rain slides down your ankles and snakes into your boot — that’s late-period UK shoegaze. 3am on a clear-skied, freezing cold night — Joy Division. Continue reading
Between the rush and rumble, and the 3am burritos of indeterminate origin, I miss two things: year-round temperate California nights and restlessly driving through them. I don’t own a car in Chicago, but I would hazard a guess that it’s not really the same thing. The locked grid of traffic lights and months of pucker-inducing black ice tend to provide enough evidence to me. I know I could always just drive out a few miles to the corn fields, but looking around and seeing a vast field of darkness doesn’t appeal to me like the dull glow of a deserted Santa Monica Blvd, or even the blinding flames at the Carson refinery.
Black Porridge 