When I was young, I was a bookish soul who hung out in the chafed leather chairs at the Barnes and Noble wearing an itchy, chafing sweater, listening to Weezer, waiting for something good to finally happen in my rotten teenage life.
It didnβt. It never did.
The "Sweater Song" would always come on Q101 as my family visited Michigan City, stopped by the beach, the outlet mall, the zoo, hitting up pretty much almost all the attractions before 4:30 p.m.
Weezer roared on the stereo and later at the Tinley Park Amphitheater, where it was easy to park but impossible to escape. The band tore into the much-requested cover of Totoβs "Africa," knowing everyone just wanted the hits and to get home and cocoon themselves unthinkingly in Netflix, that everyone swaddled themselves in a sweater somewhere in some cozy and familiar domicile.