Rebecca looked great in her summery Target dress. She even wore heals even though she's not quite an expert and she knew we'd be doing a bit of walking. For my part I chose not to wear a jacket because it was just too darned hot. So I put on a tie and left my belt at home (keeping the dream alive, Alex). We got on the train and settled in for our long ride downtown. We were joined by a few hipsters wearing cutoff shirts with ties, jeans that didn't fit and dirty shoes. I didn't say anything, but in Shelockian fashion I added it up and I knew we were all going to same place. Sure enough, they stayed with us till we got off the train.

Once on the street I told Beki we had company and dismissed me as an insane person. We walked down the street and I knew there were too many bad haircuts for this to be a normal Friday night on Michigan. We walked into the lobby and were greeted by several hundred twenty-somethings in a wide variety of thrift store and American Apparel garb. "Are we overdressed" she asked? "Definitely not." To be fair, there were a few attempts at ironic formal attire. There were thrift store tuxedos sprinkled here and there and a fake fur that would end up a couple of rows in front of us. But mostly it was the same kind of cutting edge fashion you'd see at any other contemporary rock concert. Except this wasn't a rock concert and it was in Symphony Hall. Details, details.

Rebecca wanted to coffee, so we headed across the street. On our way back we walked in front of the building and observed our peers. We observed a woman wearing a dress, smoking a cigarette, sitting on her a piling with her legs spread; no underwear. I needn't say more about our walk to our seats.

The hall was full, but far from packed. There were many more empty seats than I expected and I initially chalked it up to poor advertisement. But just before things got started I realized that 90% of the folks there were my age and unemployed. "Maybe they're planning on skipping the opening act." After the first piece the doors opened behind us and a torrent of people flooded the hall. No fewer than 70 came in from the doors immediately behind me, I can't imagine how many total. It took a full five minutes for them to find their seats. Sweaty from their bike rides over and from surely getting riled up about not being able to come in mid-performance, the place took on an aroma similar to a crowded Pei party. To steal from Anthony Lane, I felt a cavalry of embarrassment for my culture.

The people filtered in after three of the five Ys pieces. When they finished playing Ys, there was an intermission while the Orchestra tore down and the band set up. We stretched and headed outside. The street was a sea of smokestacks. Hundreds of smelly twenty-somethings making themselves even smellier, huddled next to the curb due to the cruel Chicago smoking laws. A passerby exclaimed to his companion, "...and they ALL smoking!" If you have a distaste for our youth counter-culture, take comfort in the knowledge that most will die a painful death. And if you're a med student, I suggest specializing in lung cancer. You might decorate your office accordingly, playing more electroclash and less Kenny G, except to induce the occasional ironic chuckle; laughter is, after all, the best medicine.

But perhaps all is not lost. On my way back to my seat I walked past a gentleman whereing a pair of jeans and tucked in button down shirt. "Why can't they put on a clean shirt and dress nice?!" Then again, he was wearing a huge pair of headphones as though they were his Viking battle horns.

Midway through the second act a drunk woman bolted through the doors. Upon returning she walked past her seat and nearly made it to the stage before being corralled by her boyfriend.

You can't take these kids anywhere.