n., pl., bourgeois.

  1. A person belonging to the middle class.
  2. A person whose attitudes and behavior are marked by conformity to the standards and conventions of the middle class.
  3. In Marxist theory, a member of the property-owning class; a capitalist.

Think about how you put people in little boxes, trying to sum them up into your own little world. I usually do this as I walk past the various characters you find in the first class section of a plane. The suits, trying to pretend to be more than they are, fooling no one. You have the painted up women, with the air of too much perfume mixed with old money, looking like vultures as they wait impatiently for their cocktails. Laid back yuppies and even the occasional long haired, Lennon bespectacled gent, wafting with the smell arrogance and failure, a dangerous combination.

But, I confess, there was a part of me that wanted to sit there, to feel the comfort and luxury. And so I became a little box for others to pass by and sum up, to figure out how this person ended up where I was, in peaceful slumber on my way to unrivaled awesomeness. Sometimes one needs to do good things for themself. I went to Chicago on New Years Day 2011.
This trip was all about the people, starting with the taxi driver and I talking about the history of his town, the weather, sports and other common daily chatter between two strangers. His accent is thick, sounds like his tongue is coated with smooth peanut butter. He is most helpful, and I like to tip big when I travel.
I meet more friendly strangers, new friends, if only for a while. Walking the concrete jungle streets of the Mile, I get a windburn across my face. I laugh when I see my reflection. The city is vibrant yet calm, not surprising for the day after New Years Eve. You can still feel the pulse here, the rattling of the city’s bones when walking underneath the elevated train, through the magnificent buildings and art found around every corner. I need to move to a place like this, a living breathing metropolis.
As night falls, I almost explode with anticipation of the night to come. From hearing their first album, there was always the dream that one day I would see them play live. I never would have imagined it would be in such a beautiful, historical place as the Aragon ballroom. From the moment I walked under the marquee and in the front door, to when I stumbled out the same door hours later, mobbed by a crowd overcome with energy,  It was a killer, amazing, fantastic night. I might become a groupee, leave my job, and follow them from gig to gig. Such would be the life.
As I climbed back into a cab in the wee morning hours to head back home, I collapsed from exhaustion on the seat. But the cabbie had other plans. I accommodated, listening politely as he asked me where I was from, and then the subsequent questions that follow when I tell him. He tells me that he came here from India fourteen years ago. I ask about his family and he gets melancholy as he says that he left his family home. It is a familiar and sad, but also an inspiring story to me. Family does come first. I hear about the violence in his homeland that drove him to come here in the first place. I ask him if he likes our country. He has many interesting opinions, but we both agree that nothing much will change. The bourgeois’s agree and part ways.

2 Replies to “we are The Black Keys, and we are going to play some songs for you.”

  1. Hi Im Trish
    The Black keys have been popping up on my music radar lately and Im going to see if our library has any of their music.
    I can tell like me your a big music fan and unlike me your a good photographer.
    Did you cry after schinlers list.I know it had me in tears.
    I liked pirate radio but I wished they focused more on the music and less on the guys trying to get sex.
    well anyway you are welcome to check out my blog and follow it or leave a comment.
    Rock on

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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