Seen on the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:40 a.m.
squeezes his earbuds in as far as they will go, and he turns up the music so
loud it hurts—but that’s the way he likes it. Hot Chip, Daft Punk, Skrillex,
and others pulse against his cochlea; the tiny bones jump to the beat, as if
they were in their own miniature nightclub.
is what Zhou imagines:
bass seeps into his throat and rattles his vocal cords, pumps into his heart
behind the neon colors of his t-shirt and regulates its rhythm, travels through
his bones all the way to his feet and taps out the tempo on the floor for all
is what Zhou hopes:
he loses himself in the noise, if he practices this disco meditation, he will
be able to create similar music, for it will live inside him.
I don't believe I've mentioned my friend Shannon's webcomic lately. It's called Wighthouse, and it's the wonderful story of a man who inherits a haunted lighthouse. I really like that she integrates so much Chicago history into her work. It's been going on for a few years, but most of the entries are fairly short, so it's easy to catch up. Check it out!
In other news, I tried Malort for the first time last night at Handlebar with our French couchsurfers; it was their last night, so the amazing Handlebar staff decided they shouldn't leave without trying something that is unique to Chicago. Quite frankly, I didn't think it was as bad as everyone makes it out to be. Try baijiu sometime. Now THAT'S a disgusting liquor.