For a guy who whines about the difficulties inherent in containing the burgeoning chaotic madness that is nightlife partygoing, I actually like parties, at least, I do after seven or eight drinks.

Yes, I've been attending massive nocturnal barn-burning drug-fueled semi-psychotic social gatherings set to ear pulverizing repetetive "music" for over ten years now. For some masochistic reason I get a kick out of staying awake for 36 hours, spending several hundred dollars on recently engineered feats of chemistry that the government will outlaw as soon as they learn of them, and sharing freeform Babel-speak psuedo-conversations with the people who are both not dancing and capable of speech.

This isn't coming out right. So I worked the door at a party in downtown Chicago last weekend. From 3am-10am on Sunday morning, I watched the heart of the city transform from...

I'm never going to finish this entry, so I'm just squeezing it from my brainanus to get it off my conscience.

What I was gonna get into was that I worked door/security at an afterhours party from 3am-10am about two weekends ago. I got to watch the city wake. It was awesome. I ate fresh hot stuffed pizza at 6am at Madison & Wabash. I started drinking St Pauli Girl at 7:30 am. Dawn, that fucking sunrise. Wow. Words have failed me. So here's the abortion of a post that strangled itself to death with its own umbilicus.

I'll have a finished entry called Amputated Soul tomorrow, and maybe more TV bastard, too. 10:25 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm