The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

Dear Liz:

I was at a party once, last year, up in Logan Square and this person got really drunk and said to me, "You know, if Sharon Tate had never been butchered up by Charles Manson, she would've grown up and become Liz Phair." Needless to say, I had no response to this.

I am currently writing this letter on the red line, Chicago Transit Authority, USA, clanging my way northbound to the little hovel in Edgewater I like to call home. It is three in the morning and I am currently quite drunk myself, to tell the truth. I'm drunk because I'm depressed. I'm depressed because tonight, my three-and-a-half-year-old tape of "Exile in Guyville" finally broke. And that's why I'm writing.

I grew up in the 1980's, which means I grew up in a time when there were no heroes, when you were taught that it was idiotic to even have heroes. Heroes in the 1980's were factory made, slick products of the media who became heroes through external forces beyond their control, who became those heroes through some random act of kindness that Ronald Reagan thought could be turned into a great soundbite. And of course, as always, he was right.

So, this is how I grew up. And in 1993, exactly six days after "Exile in Guyville" arrived at my college radio station in sleepy Columbia, Missouri, I made a tape of it. I put in on a black see-through Maxell 90 minute tape, backed it on the other side with Frank Sinatra, "Ring a Ding Ding!" and stuck on one of those green frowny face poison center stickers.

Have you ever had one of those tapes, Liz? Have you ever had one of those tapes that transcend the role of tape? One of those tapes that becomes a better confidant than your best friend could ever be? That makes love to you better than your lover ever could? That you play at just the right exact time in the right exact place and makes you jump around in the middle of the street and just be so glad that you're alive and on this earth right now?

My train has reached the Addison stop. A bunch of drunk frat guys poured themselves in and they are currently talking loudly, jostling each other in the aisles, and poking fun at sullen, tired black men who would just as soon kill them as look at them. I don't think these drunk frat guys really know what they're getting themselves into -- but then again, they never do, do they? I think I'll turn up my Walkman and keep writing.

There was a certain point, I don't know when exactly but I think it was around August 1994 -- that I realized that you were one of my heroes. I, of course, usually keep this information to myself, but there are certain nights, like tonight, where I have a little too much to drink and I espouse to my friends, "You know, I don't care WHAT you say. I DO have heroes."

"Oh yeah? Like who?"

"Well, like Liz Phair."

To which my friends always squint their eyes at me and go, "What? What are you talking about?" And then they pause, and then they go, "(SOUNDING DISGUSTED) Oh... God. Oh... Jason. Oh... God!"

But this is good. I don't want my heroes to be the heroes of my friends. I want my heroes to be my heroes because I am learning something from them that no one else is. I want my heroes to be my heroes because they are simply living their life and doing what they think is best and just... being my hero because they don't know what else to do. I don't want my heroes to realize they're even being heroes, because if they did realize, then what would be the point?

I met you once, inside a bar called Delilah's, and I wanted to tell you all these things that night, but what came out was, "Wow... Liz Phair! You know, your album is... well, it's, it's... well, wow, you know?" This, naturally, kept me mortified for about a year and a half after I uttered it, until I started having some success of my own here in Chicago. And now I meet people who have read my novel, and they come up and say, "Wow... Jason Pettus! You know, your book is... well, it's, it's... well, wow, you know?" And I do know. And it makes me feel not quite so stupid about being tongue-tied around you.

The last time I saw you was at a fundraiser at Steppenwolf which was, interestingly enough, being hosted by Ira Glass, who is in all likelihood listening to this letter as I speak it and who is another hero of mine and who I have ALSO gotten all tongue-tied around in front of. This was in the middle of the whole problems you were having with your new album, and every time you'd finish a song, you'd look out at the audience in amazement and say, "Wow, you guys are actually sitting there, listening to me." And I WANTED to be one of those guys at a concert who yell out, "We love you, Liz!" because, well, frankly, we do. I didn't yell it, of course, but you really have no idea how close I got.

My train has reached Bryn Mawr, my stop. My three and a half year old tape of "Exile in Guyville" broke tonight. I am holding it out to the audience as I read this, and they are all looking at it. I am quite drunk and I really, really have to pee. I am so glad I am alive and on this earth right now. And when I grow up, I want to be Liz Phair.

Sincerely,

Jason Pettus