Today I count myself among the walking wounded, thanks in part to a seriously late, seriously partying party last night. At this point I’m not sure if anything down here is going to beat watching the Pack play behind an Amtrak station at 4 AM using a compact Japanese car as a stage to an audience of about a hundred people drinking Natty Light.

Last night was a big night down here for Chicago. I personally caught Brenmar, a solo set by Bruce from Yakuza, Office, and the Ponys, and ran into a bunch of other Chi-towners on the street and at shows. I missed David Vandervelde and Catfish Haven, but reports on them were strongly positive. I also missed Flosstradamus‘s set after the Pack—I’d already stumbled back to my hotel to fall asleep in front of Angel reruns for the second night in a row —but in usual Floss style they’re playing something like 387 parties while they’re down here, so I’m sure I’ll catch at least one.

Aside from the sheer bonkers-ness of the Pack show, the best show of the fest so far was Fucked Up‘s set last night. The show was at a weird, pseudo-yuppie kind of bar, but the band played like it was the basement of a punk house. Lead singer Pink Eyes bashed himself in the forehead with his microphone when he wasn’t barking into it, and the rest of the band was just scalding. I’m going to try my best to catch the rest of their shows down here. I could probably watch that band every day. Actually, having Fucked Up play a private show for me in my living room to start every day would be awesome.

OK, obviously I need some sort of sandwich or something. After lunch I’m hitting up the trade show for schwag—is it too early to wear a Zune T-shirt ironically?—and then shows, shows, shows until I fall down. I can’t wait to see what White Savage does to the unsuspecting people down here.