the_loop raze i haven't set foot in the three-headed place in years, but the news that the person who made it what it was for a few decades has been pushed out over murky tax evasion and liquor license issues still feels like the end of something, even if it ended for me a while ago. i had a lot of good times there, and a few that were less than good. a lot of memories. playing pool with friends and strangers who became friends. derek making mixed drinks strong enough to get your teeth drunk. awkward dancing. moments of drunken notepad inspiration. andrea and the coke dealer she killed. dennis the smug prick and the girlfriend he treated like a hood ornament. rob with his prosthetic leg and heart of gold. shawn with his perfect hair and heart of pig shit. from bruised hips to near-kisses, it all happened there, until it didn't anymore. this happened there too: soggy somewhere_in_my_soul parts of slightly_rehearsed and a_casual_elegance on blue 141022 ... nr downtown chicago 141022 ... raze i'm not sure there's one member of the old staff left now. everyone has either been fired for one ridiculous non-reason or another, or they've walked out. figures. the guy who's running the show now owns a bunch of strip clubs downtown and looks set to turn this place into another one of those. so much for his talk of keeping things the way they were and maintaining the atmosphere that was half the reason anyone went there. everyone who takes over a restaurant or bar around here seems to say the same things. "we'll keep the staff you're all familiar and comfortable with. we won't change the menu. we'll keep things just the way all the long-time customers like them." none of it's ever true. 141127 ... tender_square we boarded a spaceship for planet earth, fogged the dance floor in artificial smoke behind a taped sign that read “be good to each other.” we hid in the alley alcove to smoke joints between sets, avoiding cops patrolling on foot, with cigarettes ready to switch out in case of confrontation like clumsy magicians. the peach bathroom, stall walls covered in graffiti about which guys were lame fucks and which girls were whores. the flaking tin ceiling tiles and constantly running toilets. how many times did i check myself out at the mirror above the chipped sinks, pouf my hair, lick a pinky to drag beneath my lash line, blot my lips against paper towels, adjust my tits up high, turn to check out my ass before strutting out of the door like it was a fucking runway? the room was a loop, we’d get our drinks and walk it, endlessly looping so we could be seen, so we could find better people to waste time with. everything in the bar was painted black: bars, benches and the stage made of plywood. the wooden floors worn and creaking. the windows boarded over so we could never see out to the street below. i danced like no one was watching, taking up as much space as i could, avoiding every guy that tried to grind on me. movement was my solitary prayer, the music coursing through my bloodstream as i bathed my throat in gin. the siren light that flashed at last call. the high-top tables set on old casks. the stained second-hand furniture and shitty pool tables. the video screen showing old animated videos no one could name. how eager i was to lap it all up. how many musicians and music lovers did i throw myself at within those walls? boy-men who couldn’t commit for shit. why did i hold them in such esteem and not myself, not my talents? always easier to be liked, to be bestowed with fuckable status because i’d never be respected the way i wanted. i tried emulating them—drinking like them, screwing like them, caring about nothing like them, buffering the world away until my distant stare seemed an aloof coolness many dared not approach. 211011 ... tender_square whenever i hear "12:51" by the strokes i am reminded of stereo friday's when rob or shawn would synchronize that choice with the time of night. the song was on in the car today, and as i recalled the memory aloud to michael, he pointed to the digital clock and it read 12:51 exactly. 211115 what's it to you? who go blather from