I fired up Mac’s latest strange opus “Another One” on YouTube while Caleb tried to keep his cool by doing breathing exercises and waging a personal Twitter campaign against Amtrak. ![]() Though there were figurative tears in our eyes, the least that we could do while trapped in the air-conditioned purgatory of that sleeper cabin was to pay our fervent homage to Dave Fuck himself. In other news our train had moved a full 2,000 feet in two hours. Morale plummeted as we we learned that DeMarco was hitting the Pitchfork main stage soon via Twitter. We looked out our windows with a sigh, our train delay continuing perpetually like the blank, expressionless swaths of soybean fields outside. But here we were locked out of the gates. ![]() The closest I came to seeing Mac DeMarco was two futile hours from Pitchfork Fest, wasting away in the hot, steel hull of a damned Chicago-bound Amtrak. Caleb and I had driven hundreds of miles, sleeping on benches, and braving hobos at train stations, only to be stopped so excruciatingly close to the lush, cig-smoking, craft beer-flowing music festival life that we had dreamt up in our heads.
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