I didn’t account for the weather when I accepted the bar shift. It was going to be a long day anyway. My Sundays are pretty set: I get to the Duck at 10:30am, right when they open, and stay till 1ish. Then I proceed at a leisurely pace to the bookstore for my 2pm-7pm shift.

Halfway into my second Bloody Mary, Joe texts to suggest I stay home to avoid the thunderstorms threatening the area. I assure him I won’t melt but ask if I can come in an hour early and leave at 6pm so I can have a proper dinner break before the 8pm barshift.

I fully intend to bike to the bar but five minutes into the ride my pants are soaked through from the pelting rain. I go home and change and go wait for the bus. First the Archer for half an hour, then, after giving up on that one, I walk to the Orange Line and catch the Ashland one north. By the time it drops me at Division, there are about twenty-five minutes till my shift. I grab an order of Popeye’s chicken tenders and wolf them down al fresco, shielded from the downpour in the bus shelter.

Mike sends a warning text about having the Oscars on. It’s a tradition going back to Kenny’s Sundays. Sure enough, the TV’s on when I walk through the door at five minutes to 8. I stopped watching the show many years ago because it made me angry whenever I wasn’t bored. Hollywood’s annual circle jerk is so far past irrelevant by now that even talking about it is to give it oxygen it doesn’t deserve. But Mike loves it and I would never stand in the way of love, no matter how misplaced.

There is a small group of guys watching. They ask me to put the close-captioning on and I ask Mike if he knows how to do that. The guys move to a booth after a few minutes but the show keeps going. The TV is atop the photobooth and the group running in and out of there between flashes occasionally looks up at the screen. At one point, a plastic surgery disaster slightly resembling Lionel Richie appears and I say, Hello…, as plaintively as I can manage. That gets a couple laughs.

Keefe comes in with a friend. He tells me they’ve just returned from Madison after playing a gig. Another bandmate insisted they eat at the world’s largest Culver’s. He said it was a Wisconsin tradition. Keefe remarks that Culver’s employees are always extra friendly. I say it’s the same at Trader Joe’s and that it always makes me a little uneasy.

As soon as PT Anderson’s worst movie wins best picture I turn the TV off.

A guy I know to be a Michelin-starred chef comes in and asks how many bars in the city are playing Tindersticks right now. That’s what I have on. I tell him I wouldn’t know. I guess he means this as a compliment. Then he shares a piece of gossip about the love life of a singer I know. Why he feels the need to share this is beyond me. Does he know there’s some personal history involved? As far as I know, the guy doesn’t even know my name.

My bartender from the Duck comes in toward the end of the night with her boyfriend and another friend. It’s the first time the shoe’s been on the other foot and she’s clearly amused by the experience.

It’s starting to snow as I walk down Division after locking up. The bus is going across just as I approach the intersection. I wave at it and to my surprise he stops. There is only one other passenger onboard the entire way to Bridgeport. The driver fairly shouts his end of the conversation at the other man the whole way. They talk about where they grew up, the sports they played, the guys they knew who’d made it to the big time.

I can talk all day and night, he says, and I believe him. It’s pretty funny and keeps me awake till it’s time to get off at the Orange Line.

Reviewed a great production of Mickle Maher’s Song About Himself and the Matisse show at the Art Institute.

In case you’re looking for a radio station, try this one.