"Superstar"/"Homecoming"

and the light bulbs around my mirror don’t flicker, everybody gets a nice autographed picture

These songs? It’s not the second decade of what we call the what? The actual 20th century? The last years of the Oughts? Ought to. Still a baby. Still a baby but a big old grown up. Writing what you want today about a town you hated forever but you didn’t hate, it wasn’t the town, right? take me home where the mood is mellow Because everybody is grown enough: there’s a slanting apartment just shy of the produce warehouses and in the summer everyone slinks up a shitty ladder with Old Style and Camels. And people die once, then again, and it feels impossible that it feels like it’s only hitting exactly from a radius around a Great Lake and the Great, Busted, Stupid Hearts slung into each other with boxing gloves and New Wave music and thrift store sweaters and unspoken queer theory and sadness. So many tattoos sprout at some point: for sad girls, for Neko Case, for our dreams, for nothing. I never get a tattoo. At some point adulthood seems like it’s imminent: I guess it’s why I’m here, and I can’t come back home. Do you think about me now and then? Remembering why it’s so fucking romantic, how it hits on an iPod, the fireworks on Lake Michigan. Who cares, though? Everybody drives 55. Everybody waits tables. But these are the songs anyway to say: if you want that intense, sleek way to love one city, that seemed a place to love, here it is. A place that was hot, and fun, and the agility to adore it was effortless. The headphones song walking the gangway. The song to play and then they all take the stage and start performing for me like ha ha ha ha ha ha.