She Wrote, He Wrote

It took me almost a whole week to convince Greg to spend election night downtown. He really wanted to stay home on the couch, watching the returns, yelling at the television, double-fisting his laptop and his phone, and not missing a moment of it.

I, on the other hand, wanted to be out, in the city, in Chicago, with all the thousands of other Obama supporters, whooping it up for change. I promised Greg that we’d find a cozy bar from which we could watch the footage. I advised him to wear something comfortable to work that day. I commented over and over again on what a historic night it would be and how lucky we were to be in Chicago for it. And when I scored tickets to the rally in Grant Park, he finally agreed.

The last two years (I’ve been an Obama supporter for a long time) have been a slow build to the last six months. Six months of intense obsession, of constant emails and a thousand clicks a day through all the news sites I call home. I don’t think a day has gone by in the last half year when I haven’t spoken about this election. It’s dominated my thoughts and my emotions to the point of paralyzation at times. And all because I have never so passionately believed in a leader as I have in Barack Obama. I believe in him in a way that I didn’t think my generation was capable of.

And to prove it, I’ve tried my damnedest to do my part for him this last year. I’ve given money, time, calories, words and more words in support of Barack Obama, and being there to see him win this presidential election was something that I knew I would never forget. As Greg and I left our cozy bar where we’d had dinner with friends as the early returns came in, we set out for Grant Park in awe of the streets around us. It felt like New Year’s Eve, Y2K. The streets were filled with people, filled with energy, with cheers and anticipation, and with more Barack paraphernalia than I’ve ever seen.

We stood in line for over an hour outside Grant Park, in a streaming river of people all waiting to get inside the park, to be part of this thing that we all felt part of. Cars drove by honking and waving, news traveled down the line about which states had gone blue, cheers and shouts erupting from those around us. Finally, amidst a human swarm of political passion, we slipped our way into Grant Park, crushing in amongst the thousands, all of us turning around and around, taking it all in, the crowd, the city skyline, the feeling that nothing like this had ever happened.

And just a half hour after we’d gotten inside, the giant screen showing CNN announced that Obama had taken Virginia. And then that he’d taken the presidency. I could hardly take it in. What, no fight? No contesting of ballots, or fraud, or of some other ridiculous thing? That’s it? Barack Obama has won?

Barack Obama has won.

We were all hugging and crying and the whole field tingled with something new, something no one had ever felt before, or at least hadn’t felt in a long time. My head was spinning. We’re going to end the war, I thought. People will have health care, I thought. The world will stop hating America, I thought. And then I realized how used to things I’d been, how resigned and unhopeful and uninspired I’d been these last eight years.

I’m still taking it all in. I’m still brought to tears thinking of it all, of all the different things electing Barack Obama means. I’m still taking in the idea of hope. And of what it feels like to be proud of my country and the people who live here.

The last political fundraiser I went to was for Howard Dean back in 2004. The fundraiser was in the shape of a fancy party held at director David O. Russell’s (Three Kings, I Heart Huckabees) house in Beverly Hills. I was there under the pretense of working with the caterer, but really I was there to see Howard Dean.

This was before he’d lost his credibility as a candidate and he was still, in my opinion, the most interesting candidate to choose from. When he spoke at the party that night, Dean was funny and frank, his short stature giving him a kind of solid presence I hadn’t expected. David O. Russell was impulsive and strange, sitting and standing at wildly inappropriate moments throughout Dean’s speech on his manicured back patio. I stood quietly on the fringe of the small crowd in my caterer’s black pants and white button down shirt.

Last week, attending a Barack Obama fundraiser deemed “The Audacity of Beer” at The Galway Arms in Lincoln Park, was quite a different experience. Rather than spending an evening with the Hollywood elite, Greg and I joined a few friends for a laid back night of Irish ale and Obama enthusiasm. It’s certainly not hard to find Barack supporters in Chicago these days, but nonetheless it was nice to be around a large and enthusiastic group of them.

We all got something to eat downstairs before heading up to the second floor to peruse the games and tables that had been set up. There were bumper stickers and pins to be acquired, voter registration information to be gleaned, life-size George W. Bush cutouts to pin things on, George W. Bush voodoo dolls to stick pins into (all the pins, save one in his heart, were stuck in his crotch), a Dick Cheney-as-the-devil poster to pin a tail on, and lots of little games like Connect Four featuring Barack’s and McCain’s faces.

Although it wasn’t the most amazing event I’ve ever been to, it was nice to be around like-minded people. It was kind of fun to take some jabs at the soon-to-be-former administration. It was satisfying to donate money to Barack Obama’s campaign and it was great to enjoy an evening out with friends while supporting a political figure I whole-heartedly believe in.

While there’s still more I could be doing, and more I plan on doing, to support Barack Obama’s campaign, I was glad to do at least this small thing: drink beer in the name of the man I hope will run soon run this country.

When I first moved to Chicago I lived in this shitty apartment building on the north end of Lincoln Park. My apartment was on the second floor, sandwiched between a strange, young couple on the floor above me who were prone to 2AM alcohol-infused arguments, and a quadrant of DePaul college boys in a sprawling first floor apartment.

The laundry in the building was in the basement, accessible only by walking through the college boys’ apartment, which they graciously kept unlocked at all times. If I went downstairs to do laundry before noon, the boys were never anywhere to be seen. Quietly pushing open their half-closed back door, I would step gingerly over pizza boxes and empty cans of beer, maneuvering around a giant bong sitting in front of the big screen television in the living room, and being extra careful not to tip over a tower of beer cans near the window. All the bedroom doors would be shut before noon, and I could practically picture the boys, sprawled on their stomachs, still in last night’s clothes, their mouths open, perhaps a little drool edging down the bare mattress beneath them.

If I went down to do laundry after 2pm, they were usually awake. I’d push open the back door, and in the kitchen one or two of them would be standing in front of the microwave, shirtless, in a pair of shorts, watching little microwaveable pizza rolls go round and round and round. “Hey,” they’d mumble in my direction, transfixed by the pizza rolls. In the living room the rest of them, and perhaps an added friend or two, would be sprawled across the two couches watching “Wedding Crashers” or “Happy Gilmore” or playing “Guitar Hero,” all of them smoking cigarettes, the bong now on the makeshift coffee table between them. “Hey,” they’d mumble, never taking their eyes off the television, and I’d wind my way through them, carefully carrying my basket of dirty clothes down to the basement.

All this to say that I often wondered if they ever went outside, except to smoke cigarettes sometimes on the dingy little back porch, if they ever did anything beside drink and watch television and play video games.

And I’d forgotten about those college boys, practically erased them from my memory, just as I had that dark and depressing little apartment I lived in my first six months here in Chicago. I think I would have forgotten about them forever, had it not dawned on me, within my first two minutes of attending Day 2 of Lollapalooza, that if the college boys ever did anything besides drink beer, play video games, and watch television, they, without a doubt, they made one excursion outside each year and it was most likely for Lollapalooza.

I think the first thing I said to Greg, after ten minutes of pushing my way through a teeming sea of thousands of drunk, shirtless college boys so that I could find my way to wherever it was Greg and his friends were by the time I got down to the park on that second day was, “I officially hate Lollapalooza.”

Greg, with his sprained ankle, hobbled off to a tiny grass spot with me, looking a little dejected and disappointed by my proclamation, and I tried to put on a smile after that, but it felt good to declare my vitriol for this event. Our little group headed over to Budlight Stage after a while to catch a very good Broken Social Scene performance. On the way there I registered to vote at the Rock the Vote tent, which was something I’ve needed to do since my move, and may turn out to be the only redeemable aspect of my Lollapalooza experience.

After listening to Broken Social Scene for a while, I finally mellowed out a bit, mostly because they were just so good, and because we’d found a comfortable patch of grass on which to sit. Around 7:30, Greg and his friends headed off to see Rage Against the Machine at the other end of the park, where we’d seen Radiohead, and I stayed behind by myself to catch the Wilco performance.

I had some time to kill before Wilco, so I bought two glasses of red wine for myself and began wandering around, looking for a mellow spot where I could sit by myself. The funny thing was that as soon as I was alone, I felt more comfortable. Maybe there is something about trying to stay in a group at an event like this that makes it hard to enjoy yourself. When there was finally no one else to worry about, I no longer had a problem weaving through the crowds of people, the blue summer sky curving overhead.

I was about to just sit down in the grass to sip my wine and get ready for Wilco when I noticed the music coming from another stage. I propped myself up against a little wall and began to listen. There was a vivacious black woman on stage, strutting back and forth and just singing her heart out. Behind her, an ensemble band kicked out some fantastic sounds and before I knew it my foot was tapping.

“Who is this?” I asked a guy standing near me.

“Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings,” he replied.

“Thanks, they’re great!”

“I know.”

I’m not very good at writing about music but I will say that this woman was just electric. I don’t care if you don’t like funk or the blues, you would have liked this. The music filled up all the space around me and before I knew it, I was just happy. There with my two glasses of red wine and my solitary company, listening to Sharon Jones, was definitely my favorite moment at Lollapalooza.

By the time Wilco came on, it was dark out, I was more than tipsy, and hearing those old familiar songs that have been the soundtrack for so many days and events over my last few years instantly brought tears to my eyes. Jeff Tweedy’s voice, ringing out across the audience, the skyline sparkling behind the stage, I couldn’t help but have one of those moments in which I was nothing but grateful for my life and all the experiences I get to have while I’m here.

And if battling a sea of shirtless college boys was the price to pay for that, then it was well worth it.

Lollapalooza
Grant Park, Chicago
August 1-3