It was a dark and stormy night. Everyone felt like getting a little tribal.
Around 10 PM we all headed to Lincoln Park. The musicians were covered head to toe in mud–instead of hair they all had slimy brown tendrils. Chunks of mud plopped off them as they walked into the bar, where a muscular door guy in a tight T-shirt stopped them immediately. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “Haven’t you ever been in a club in Chicago before? You can’t come in here like this.” He pointed out that besides their filth, many of them weren’t wearing shoes or shirts. “There’s a car wash down the street,” he sputtered. “Go clean yourselves off.”
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Eric Graf, cofounder of the zine and record label Terry Plumming, got some one-gallon cans of banana pudding out of the van and started smashing them against the curb. We were all splattered in yellow spooge faster than you can say Gallagher.
Earlier that evening I’d attended a “Designer Sample Sale & Spa Soiree” hosted by Julie Darling and Beauty on Call at Architectural Artifacts. The classy affair included deeply discounted spring and summer clothing from the likes of Development, Kasil, Ulla Johnson, Antik Denim, and Christopher Deane that the rich-hipster boutique Jake was desperately trying to get rid of, plus some late-90s horrors Hugo Boss was hawking out of plastic Tupperware bins. A few local designers and girlie boutiques had set up tables as well, and a catering company had assembled a mini chocolate fountain that looked like a runny brown wedding cake.
When we tried to leave, a big guy in a suit told me to open my purse.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Andrea Bauer.
