Untouchable is something to be...

This Friday, I'll hop the Red Line and head north for a chance to head south--back to my younger, more innocent days. Back to the days when I was untouchable. Safe from the sometimes harsh realities of adulthood.

I'll return to Chicago's sweetheart venue, the Metro, to see Against Me! headline with Lemuria and Screaming Females, to see what is sure to be a sweaty and emotive performance.

The timing couldn't be more perfect. A year into my semi-adult life. A year since I shed naive sensibilities and headed with tentative faith into the future. This evening will offer up a celebratory toast. For both a girl and a band. A tribute to the innocence lost and to the inspiration gained from our younger, revolutionary selves.

A Spineless Overstatement...

My 23rd birthday went as quickly as it came, and in its aftermath was a wretched hangover and a tinge of regret. Approaching your 23rd year is like trudging through no man's land of your twenties. A meaningless age that has minimal pay out. I'm two years into drinking legally, two years out from legally renting a car in Ireland-- I'm just crawling like a baby through what was once a decidedly adult decade.

In many ways I feel like an adult. I'm working full time. I'm living on my own and paying rent. I have a balance in my savings account that any 23-year-old would boast about. But, as I look to other friends my age, or even those who have a few years on me (with the exception of a few rush-to-get-married twenty-somethings), there isn't a hint of an adult mentality between the lot of 'em. Our twenties have become the playground to live out the dreams of our youth. With a little bit of cash in the hand, we can do and buy some of the things we've always wanted to do. So, this year I vow to to make the most of this adult-less adulthood that society has deemed acceptable and I'll do it gladly.

Broke as a Joke?

Every weekend, I scrounge together enough cash so I can enjoy a good time with friends. Whether it’s buying a bottle of obscure wormwood liquor as a joke, consuming an obscenely large burger from Kuma's, or downing pints of craftiest of craft beers, I work hard to make sure I can take full advantage of wherever the weekend takes me.

Now, I’m a proponent of a good time, and I love to see other people spending their hard-earned cash on a night of tomfoolery, but it baffles me to see a horde of plaid-shirt-wearing 25-year-olds that hang by a delicate thread of tenuous employment guzzling down beer after beer, night after night. What’s even more perplexing is running into that cute, down-on-his-luck sucker as you journey toward the bar, who’ll tell you all about the terrible job he’s just lost as he orders another round of pibbers. And, I don’t know if it’s the cheap beer, or his spot-on combo of vans, skinny jeans, and a button-up, but at that moment, I truly feel for this dude.

So, I find myself late on a Sunday thinking about this issue from afar, wondering with earnest curiosity how one can afford to let the brews flow freely when the money flow is trickling at best. It sort of angers me in a way, because it makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong with my life, but when you add up all the facts, it just doesn’t figure.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure it all out this weekend.