“…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn…” Jack Kerouac.

My girlfriend and I came to Chicago because we plan to drive Route 66, and it would seem wrong to hit that storied road without slipping into Chicago’s notorious past. That means jazz. If you’re going to jazz it up right, late night’s the ticket. It’s almost 10:00 when we grab a cab to take us to the oldest continuously operating jazz club in Chicago, an old speakeasy called the Green Mill.

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In winter, I think of Colorado resorts in terms of skiing. In summer, I think of the Rocky Mountains in terms of hiking. If I crave outdoor music, sometimes I buy a ticket to a concert at Red Rocks Amphitheater. But this cost-cutting year, I’m re-mixing my seasonal favorites into new combos. On this Sunday, I mix Copper Mountain with world class guitarists with “free.” Through dumb luck, I find myself at an event that prompts me to tell my husband, ”Ten years from now, we’ll tell people, ‘We were there when…’”

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