Crying in a suit and tie / but you should see the other guy
One more time for old times’ sake / I’ll watch and get carried away

The owner of the record store flipped the lights off, as a special welcome message from Phoebe Bridgers played over the speakers. Almost immediately, everyone in the record shop, here for the midnight release of the album, sat down. I hadn’t been to a listening party in forever and assumed everyone would browse while they listened. They didn’t, and since I hadn’t been scoping out a good place to sit, I was left standing without a great place to be. When you’re tall and broad, this can be a common issue. I’m flexible enough, but I can only tuck myself away in a corner so effectively. At the back of the shop were three panels of fluorescent light beaming down white light so pure it felt like an alien mothership was hanging overhead, calling me home. I stayed standing, pretending to browse but not moving, through “The “Outside” and “Lost Boys,” but after that I started to feel very conspicuous and not “in the vibe.”

In a twin bed / Where all will be forgiven in an instant
Hands in each other's hair / We are born again

It was eleven at night. I’d had a rough day, to be honest, dealing with some emotional turmoil. Part of me (the largest part, if I’m being honest) wanted to stay home. I could always grab the album (Lost Weekend) the next day. But the listening party and midnight release reminded me of the excitement of my college days, when the record store there would open at midnight every week for the latest releases. I’ve never been an extraordinarily outgoing person. I’m shy, and I feel awkward in new situations. But in recent years it’d gotten worse. My friend group tended to like to stay in. My partner tended to like to stay in. And, you know, I tended to like to stay in. There are many great reasons to be cozy at home, where you can control the environment. And, there I was, pushing myself to get out amongst my fellow humans, and I ran right smack dab into the sort of awkward scenarios that make going out a pain.

This is gonna kill me / Wait

Except, I’ve done a lot of work to defy these natural inclinations, and I told myself just to sit somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter. Yes, I didn’t want to sit under the thousand lumen spotlight of the fluorescents. And I didn’t want just to sit down where I stood, because I’d be putting myself in the eye-line of a row of music aficionados trying to listen to an album. That felt awkward in a different direction. So, I went next to one of them, just half in the shadows and half in the light. I put my head back and listened.

I was the belle of The Governor's Ball
Hiding in the bathroom like Shelley Duvall

 It’s one of her most sonically rich and adventurous albums. I haven’t looked to see what other people think of the album, but I’ve been loving it. I like the songs and the different musical textures. But this isn’t about the album itself, but the experience. I’d settled in by “The Governor’s Waltz,” enjoying the music as it pumped out of the (very good, of course) sound system of the record shop. The door was open to the cool night of downtown Champaign, a rare rainless night lately. The breeze whispered past, and the crickets chirped contentedly. I wondered if crickets chirped in large cities, or if this was a delight reserved for small cities.

I've been known to throw a tantrum / When things are not the way I imagine them
I am restoring the natural order / Learning the same lesson over and over again

I had the thought, as I sat and listened, what a singular experience this was. Nothing I could replicate at home, listening on my headphones. Being around people is energizing. I like writing around people. It’s a way to be near the energy of other people, without the energy-draining experience of directly interacting with them. This was a similar experience. But then then things started to get thrown off. A group of younger women, either high schoolers or young college students, were giggling. Two people, who did not seem to get the vibe of what was going on, were looking through the music, sometimes making sounds as album covers clomped against each other or old VHS tapes clattered together.

Here’s where a part of myself I don’t particularly like came out.

Wouldn’t it be better if those two people sat down? And wouldn’t it be better if those girls weren’t gossiping and giggling? My brain has high expectations for myself, which sometimes extends to others. I also have this annoying streak of “good boy” in me that wants things to be orderly, neat, and as efficient as possible. It’s a great way for life to be a series of frustrating disappointments. 

If you're gonna make a wish, then / You better be specific
You're gonna have to live it every day

This night, for whatever reason, I was able to stop that particular thought train in its tracks. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the heartache, dull and throbbing and pushed way down. I felt rawer, emotionally, than I’ve allowed myself to be in a long time. It felt good. It felt bad. It felt confusing. Maybe all that helped. Because, one by one as I listened, I imagined these people, who all ended up here this night, and why. And this time, I did it with a more open heart. The sort of open heart I always want to approach the world with, even if the world often (in my experience) seems to not appreciate it.

For instance, the man who seemed unable to settle, hovering near and over me; maybe he was like I’d been only minutes before. Unsure and unsettled and late to the proceedings. Or maybe there was some distraction in his head that wouldn’t allow him to calm himself enough to sit. Similarly, the blonde woman, who seemed very friendly, was similarly unsettled, but also seemed less bothered by the fact. She carried herself with the energy of a regular, unbothered by what everyone else was doing, and enjoying her own experience. I admired her.

And those young women chatting and laughing, who was I to say that wasn’t the way to listen to an album? Especially when you’ve come with friends. Every giggle became a joy. I don't know what they were saying. It didn't matter. They were here, too, and enjoying themselves. And, as I gently reminded my brain: Wasn't that the fucking point?

Pushed headfirst into the world / Just to be thrown in the street when you dressed like a girl
An angel in the snow / Accident prone

In this way, I made a simple revelation about myself that was no less impactful to me for its simplicity. I knew I had lots of opinions about the way other people do things, believe me. I try to keep them to myself, unless I know a person well. And it’s always said to be helpful. But, you know, a lot of people don’t care for that sort of “help,” and I don’t blame them. But even if I don’t say it, I’m still thinking of it as if any of the things these other people were doing had any real impact on my experience. The only one letting them impact it was me. So, instead of letting them be pains that were interrupting my moment, I added them to it. Every person in there was enjoying (hopefully) the listening party just as they wanted, and isn’t that a good thing?

Liberty Tree Mall / In the photo booth
This place is dying / We don't care if we're living proof

Trying to “police” the world, hoping everyone will behave in a certain way to maximize the experience, is a miserable way to muddle through. As soon as I let go of that desire—as inherent as it seems baked into me, for whatever reason—I felt so much better. I enjoyed myself so much more.

I remember the day I created the world / I got blood on my favorite shirt.
You were shaking like a final girl / I got what I deserved

Shortly after I settled in, I began to hear a new wrinkle in the album's soundscape—a far-away song, in the right channel. If you’ve listened to the album, you’ll know this wasn’t surprising—at first. Except it got louder, and I realized that the energetic song wasn’t coming from the right channel, but from outside. A cleaning worker passed by, jamming his music, unaware there was a roomful of people in the record shop. It’s connected to an old bus station, and he continued into the main door, music blasting into the shop from an open door in that direction. The owner scrambled to close the door, smiling and just shrugging.

“It was like our own personal remix,” I said quietly as he passed by. He and the blonde woman who’d been browsing smiled at the comment. A silly little thing, that tiny moment of connection. But, sometimes I think it's those unfiltered moments of connection—whether large or small—that make being with people worth it.

It was just part of the experience, and it was glorious in its imperfection, and I’d never be able to hear the album Lost Weekend by Phoebe Bridgers in exactly that same way again. I might never listen to the album without thinking of that music coming in, lively and in Spanish, wonderfully crashing into the Bridgers album, and the giggling women, and the unsettled people, and the man next to me with his head down, intently focused on the music. Or the clusters of other people, seeking each other out in person—some in groups, and some alone.

You won't have to believe in magic
Leave it to me, and I'll make it happen

So, here’s to an inefficient life. To one where chaos is, and the worst and the best happen side by side. To a life where some things take time. Where some people let you down. To a life where people surprise you with their generosity or simply remind you of the quality of their spirit. Here’s to a life where I remember I’m not in charge of anyone but myself, and to welcome the strangeness, and laugh at it, when I need to. And, you know, here’s to life. It’s a messy business, but I’m happy I’m in the mix.

Now I can't see any stars in the sky
When a dream comes true, a fantasy dies
But we're gonna be alright

About the image: A shot I took of my view, sitting on the floor, looking up at the mural and the bright flourescent light.