My girlfriend had been in Thailand for several months. The distance had strained our relationship, reducing communications to misunderstood emails and brief phone calls whose subjects rarely strayed beyond explanations of those misunderstood emails. Fall had exploded and begun to fade and Chicago�s demented version of October cruelly reminded everyone that winter intended to kick their collective ass.

I was living with three other guys in a house that maintained a lofty beer to human ratio, in a room without a window, save for the one separating me from our enclosed porch. It was an odd time, marked by excessive drinking and the occasional party, but much of that social activity seemed to border on the habitual. I remember being somewhat disengaged from my surroundings, a feeling certainly fueled by my frequent hangovers and alcohol-induced sleep deprivation. I was counting down the days until she got back and until I had something desirable to break up my monotony.

I had destroyed the walls of my room by mounting my 5.1 system so that the speakers surrounded my bed. I kept my subwoofer beside my mattress and my laptop, the hub for those countless wires, in close reach. It was a setup I prided myself on, but few shared my enthusiasm. After all, who wants to sit in a windowless room and listen to music with a guy who prides himself on surrounding his bed with speakers?

On one very special Saturday morning, fate was kind enough not to wake me with the routinely obscene and constantly unnecessary noises of my roommates� morning activities. Do you really need to put away silverware at 9 AM? Do you absolutely have to do so by launching it into the drawer and projecting an ear-piercing chime every time a hurled spoon ricochets off a fork?

I laid in bed, trying my best to appreciate the faintest of breezes that somehow managed to trickle in from the open windows a full room away. By the time I got the air, it was carrying the stale scents of our foul porch that had all but turned into a giant, beer-soaked ashtray. The apartment was silent, a rarity at any time of day.

I remember putting Broken Social Scene�s You Forgot It In People on the stereo and attending to it with the attention and appreciation that we often reserve for first dates. �KC Accidental� enveloped my senses and for a moment I felt completely lost, as if the past few months were part of some documentary I was studying. I listened to the entire album, but my only memory is of that one song and the interruption it offered.

I harbor no negative feelings about that year or its unique brand of madness. It seemed appropriate and, at the time, remarkably enjoyable. That doesn�t mean a little fresh air wasn�t appreciated, regardless of whether or not it smelled like Classic Ice. Summer is here, ending the cold and rainy spring and making winter the most impossible of thoughts. It�s a reprieve we earn with our weather-worn umbrellas and pants ruined by salt deposits. For those of us who live in the more climatically cruel of locations, it�s nothing short of a blessing and, lately, I can�t help but listen to �KC Accidental.�

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