(This was originally written as part of an "article exchange" with a staff member of Lick, an online contemporary music magazine. People are constantly asking me if this story really is true -- I'm here today to swear to you that it is.)

Ah, Chicago. In August of 1994 I heard the City of Big Shoulders calling to me from my sleepy hovel in Columbia, Missouri. Oh, the bright lights! Eee, the galleries! And oh, my oh my, the chance to meet Liz Phair!

Because, of course, by that time I and millions of other red-blooded American men (and women) had become entranced with the vixen: her smart-ass comments on 120 Minutes; the lyrics that would just make you want to get trashed and scream and yell in the middle of the street; the come-hitheresque manner in which she hung out with Winona Ryder.

And I had an in! Friends from school were already living in Wicker Park, a mere six houses down from Ms. Phair. Tales they would relate over the phone would make me heady -- "Oh, yeah, I just saw Liz yesterday at the grocery store, buying a Mello Yello or something." "Well I got drunk at the Empty Bottle last week and Liz was down there with her boyfriend making out in the corner and then Urge Overkill showed up and they all got kicked out 'cause they wouldn't take those stupid fuckin' medallions off." And hell, once on a trip up there, I got my picture taken in the same photo booth that Liz did her album cover for "Exile in Guyville" from. Shit, there no way I'm not going to meet her.

So I packed up, took off, and a day later landed with a resounding thud at the corner of Ashland and Division, where my home would be for the next eight months. My first week in Chicago, in the times that I wasn't getting lost on the el, dodging bullets from the three Latino gangs that lived in my neighborhood, and wondering if working retail again would necessarily be such a bad idea, I vainly kept my eyes open for that moment that her Phairness would stroll into my coffeeshop, order herself a double latte (with extra shavings, of course -- she is a wealthy rock star now, you know), glance at my oh-so-trendy yet intellectual contemporary fiction I had just picked up, and sit and converse with me on the finer points of Nelson Algren.

And then... one day... it happened.

It was a simple sheet of orange paper, shoved into my hand after yet another atrocious show at some atrocious club. Six simple words, but, oh, weighed with such power that the flyer almost knocked my ass to that Damen Avenue sidewalk --

"LIZ PHAIR SPINS - ABOUT 9 - DELILAH'S."

Delilah's, for those poor suckers that have never been to Chicago, is this great slackerish dive that just happens to be in the middle of the big frat guy section of town (don't ask me -- this all happened before I moved here.) The place is well known for asking Chicago indies to come and drink free beer and spin whatever weird stuff they've been listening to recently.

I asked my friend Carrie if she'd head my sorry lost self over to this place that night, and she said sure. This is the one that lived six doors from My Phair Lady (sorry, I have a bet with a friend about how many different Phair puns I can use in one story. I'm winning). I remember her mumbling something about, "This'll be interesting, seeing what kinda music Liz Phair listens to..."

We got to Delilah's that fateful sweltering night, and the first thing we noticed was that the place was... crowded. I mean, really crowded.

"Jesus," Carrie said. "I've never seen this many people in Delilah's! Fuckin' Liz Phair..."

The second thing I noticed that there was no DJ booth. All Delilah's has is this stereo set up on some shelves behind the bar. It's the first thing you see when you walk in -- it's maybe three feet from me as I come through the front door. And as I made my first accidental glance across the bar to see what's going on...

There she is. Phair skin and all.

LIZ PHAIR -- A TRUE AND FALSE LIST
TRUE: Liz Phair is a really short person.
FALSE: Liz Phair was currently having sex with Nash Kato when the cover photograph of "Exile in Guyville" was taken.
TRUE: The tapes of "Girly Sounds," Liz Phair's first four-track recordings in her parents' basement that eventually got sent to Matador and got her her contract, will rock your world.
TRUE: Liz Phair does have this affinity for making out in public.
FALSE: Liz Phair has great taste in music.

This club was filled with hundreds of kids with their costumes down to a science, all there to get a taste of the Phair Ball, but they were all too cool to actually, you know... actually look at her.

Except me, of course. There were two empty barstools directly opposite the stereo -- apparently the idea of being within spitting distance of Phair Play intimidated the majority of the crowd -- but not my friend "I kicked Steve Albini out of my own party" Carrie. She sat on her stool with the same gusto as if she were stitching a scarlet letter A on her ass, and she beckoned me to do the same.

I have to say that I would never accuse the Phairly Amazing One of playing music that night I like. But the combination of the obscure disco and the cheesy new wave hits didn't give me any palpitations -- I was there! And she was there! Literally 48 inches from me. Literally so close that I swore I could hear the lyrics to the new album leaking out of her brain. Carrie and I were rapidly on our way to getting blotto; I had been in Chicago one week and hadn't gotten killed yet; and I definitely was going to have the most kick-ass story of all my friends come Christmas when I visited Missouri next. All was right in the world.

After many, many beers, Carrie finally got up and said, "Well... fuck this. I'm going home. Are you sure you're going to be able to find your way back?" I confirmed with a wave of my hand, and I suddenly found myself alone.

The moment of truth had arrived, for I found that my level of inebriation was putting me on the fast train to Slumberville myself. The moment had come for me to decide whether or not to say something to our Phair-weathered friend.

The pro, of course, is that I never might have this opportunity again. Who knows? I might just impress her. The con, obviously, is, well, she's Liz Phair, and I'm drunk as a skunk, and any attempt at this point to open my mouth might turn into a rambling, stream-of-consciousness, Ellen-Degeneris-like monologue about how the reason I have such a big crush on her is because she looks just like the girl I had my first ever crush on, who used to make me sit in her parents' basement when we were seven while she played the Grease soundtrack and make me lipsynch all of John Travolta's lines and dance around the rec room, and then damnit she grew up and married an engineer, for Christ's sake, I mean, what the hell is that all about, and put on thirty pounds and I am actually living my crush vicariously through her in order to recapture this sweet, innocent time in my past.

And that, as they say, would not be good.

A LIST OF THINGS I, JASON PETTUS, ACTUALLY CONSIDERED SAYING TO LIZ PHAIR
"Oh, I love this song." (TOO SUCK-UP)
"So, when's the new album coming out?" (TOO INDIE)
"I know you studied art in college. Can you recommend some galleries that I can see some good, contemporary, unpretentious artists?" (TOO INTELLECTUAL)
"I saw your show at Metro in January. I drove all the way from Missouri!" (TOO STALKER)
"I'm sorry I sent you a fan letter. I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I just feel like a big geek." (TOO PATHETIC)
"I really like your jacket." (SEE FIRST ITEM)

My nervousness was rising to a fever pitch. My hands were getting sweaty. I know I'm leaving real soon, and I must, I must say something to Liz with a Z. Anything. But what to say? MY GOD, WHAT AM I GOING TO SAY TO HER?

And then, Captain Phairlight played an Erasure song. One of the female bartenders turned to her and yelled, "I did a cheerleading routine to this in high school!" Liz said, "Really? So did I!" and they started doing their routine, right there behind the bar, hip shakes and finger guns and all.

Now, this next part of the story has been open to some dispute -- my friends say that this couldn't possibly have happened. But as I stand and breathe today, I swear on my full color poster of Liz that I swiped from the Matador offices, the following exchange really did take place.

The Phair and Away Girl and the bartender were desperate to find an audience for their cheerleading display. Looking around the room, they observed, as I had done earlier, that the AlternaNation was not going to be so gauche as to actually notice them. Except for me, of course.

So, they turned, and scarcely two feet from my eyes, the two women proceeded to do that seductive high school dance to yours truly, their party of one.

The song ended, and Liz Phair turned to me and said, "So? What did you think?"

Panicked, I jumped out of my bar stool and ran out the door.

And that, my friend, was the last time I saw our Phair-haired Ubergrrl. Barring, of course, the three minutes this last winter I was on the Milwaukee Ave. bus at the same time as her. But I don't count that, so neither should you.

Was I too hasty in running off? If I had made the perfect insightful yet irreverent comment back to her that night, would we now be fast friends, hanging out in the Bahamas while she records her new album, sharing a Mai Tai with Kim Deal and asking Bob Guccione Jr. to shave some more ice? I really, really doubt it.

But you never know. I'm told that Liz Phair peruses the Web on a regular basis. Perhaps she'll come across this article, be tickled, and e-mail me, starting the burgeoning friendship that I was so sure I was going to have with her in the first place.

Because... (all together now) all's Phair in love and war (thank you -- I won the bet)!

Copyright 1995, Jason Pettus. All rights reserved.