The Lounge

February 5, 2009

Jean and I drove to Dubuque on a whim Saturday, and spent a good portion of the night drinking white Russians, apple pie and beer at the Lounge. It’s a good place, with wall paper and mirrors and very dim light, and a posh waiting room with a leather couch inside the ladies restroom. The kind of place where the jukebox music never changes.

At midnight, the youngish bartender leaves for the evening, and the owner’s wife takes over behind the bar. She’s an old woman, hard of hearing, but likes to converse. Above her head hang coffee mugs from across the known world, a collective gift from unknown people, and under the cash register they keep an entire drawer of playing cards.

I didn’t shoot much while I was there. I spent most of the night trying to convince Matt to join Twitter, and to actually use it. All I got out of it was a handful of images of Matt resisting my efforts.





“Is this the right place?” I asked Jean, as we pulled up.

“I don’t know. What was the address again?”

“I don’t remember. Funk said it was at Wabansia and Elston. Right across from the Hideout.”

“That’s the Hideout.”

“That’s the Hideout? ”

“Yeah. But there’s nothing across from it. Call him again.”

Turns out the party, a Pitchfork Festival afterparty, was diagonal from the Hideout, in one of those warehouse-to-loft conversions, with a rooftop deck. On the deck, it was nice and coolish, for a balmy summer night with little breeze in the city supposedly famous for its wind. But inside, on the building’s second floor, where three bands played to a BYOB crowd of 200-odd twenty-something hipsters, it was really fucking hot.

To see the series, click here or on the image.