Consider this a purge.
A necessary year-end draining of the snippets, moments and bolts of cultural lightning that burned hot in my skull, sometimes left a mark, sometimes faded quickly, but always jolted me awake in 2013 and became, if only for one bracing moment, the answer to my dreams, the greatest thing ever.
If I had my way I would do this "Hunger Games"-style, pushing Kanye West's urgent "Saturday Night Live" performance of "New Slaves" into battle against, oh, Bill Murray's appearance as Liberace on "The Late Show with David Letterman," forcing these memories to fight for a permanent spot on my internal timeline. But frankly, there is too much of everything these days, and I have stopped pretending to think that I can remember what any year felt like — we have become too culturally promiscuous, too cross-disciplinary, too eager to move on.
What remains are flashes.
A montage reel of emotions from the past 12 months is all I can ask for before moving on to the next 12. And so, in the interest of posterity (and maybe jolting your own cultural synapses), from 2013, I remember …
Sitting in a packed theater in Evanston, watching the haunted-house picture "The Conjuring" (my favorite film of the year), noticing that not a soul in that roomful of riveted people dared stir, then falling in love with movies yet again.
Getting an impromptu performance piece from Bjork as confusion, bemusement and annoyance played across her face: A Pitchfork Music Festival stagehand had just told her to stop because it was about to rain.
Then driving past Wrigley Field later that night and hearing rain-delayed Pearl Jam still blasting at 1:30 a.m.
Killing an hour playing with the ingenious, interactive (only six decades late) video for Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" — then happily squandering another 10 minutes on MGMT's video for "Your Life is a Lie," which takes its cue from Dylan's classic "Subterranean Homesick Blues" video, spelling out the lyrics.
Listening to a pair of Irish tourists fiercely debate whether or not they could actually sit in the wooden pews that greeted visitors at Chicago artist Theaster Gates' solo exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art.
Delighting in the deeply metaphorical opening minutes of "American Hustle," in which Christian Bale painstakingly assembles a ridiculous comb-over only to have it immediately disrupted by Bradley Cooper.
Watching with real suspense as choreographer Bill T. Jones set the clock to 70 minutes for "Story/Time," his memoiristic performance piece at the Dance Center at Columbia College, then finished at exactly — to the second — 70 minutes.
Luxuriating in the long, thoughtful and daring (near-motionless) silences that punctuated "The Aliens," Annie Baker's modest, moving play at A Red Orchid about restless and shy bohemians stuck in small-town Vermont.
Admiring the commitment that director Jason Osder showed to simple, direct (and ultimately inconclusive) storytelling in "Let the Fire Burn," a masterful recounting — entirely though archival images, TV news reports and surveillance footage — of the 1985 Philadelphia police-led bombing of the radical organization MOVE.
Being unable to put down critic Hilton Als' "White Girls," the best book of the year, an exhilarating, original blur of memoir, fiction and cultural essay that takes Richard Pryor and Flannery O'Connor in equal measure, and argues, with a virtuosic, iconoclastic wit that Michael Jackson and Truman Capote count as white girls.
Reclining on the floor of a Logan Square loft and losing myself inside the charm of the Manual Cinema, a Chicago-based shadow-puppet theater that constructs hypnotic, undeniably cinematic (feature-length) plays.
Rising out of my seat (quite literally) and feeling 8 years old again during the feverishly inspired 20-minute battle of Hong Kong in "Pacific Rim," the centerpiece of Guillermo del Toro's underrated, pop-art-ish, robots-vs.-monsters epic (the best reason for blowing $190 million on a special-effects movie in years).
Bursting out in embarrassed laughter on an airplane while reading Lisa Hanawalt's incisive and absurdist "My Dirty Dumb Eyes," her very random collection of comics, oddball journalistic riffs and terrifically sharp illustrated reviews of blockbusters such as "Rise of the Planet of the Apes": "The boss character, Jacobs, just shouted 'I run a business, not a petting zoo!' Hey screenwriter, petting zoos are totally a business."
Standing in front of Chris Bradley's hilarious, realistic-looking "Crust Ring," a sculpture of a pizza with the center eaten (only cast in bronze and painted), and realizing curator Michelle Grabner's group show at the Hyde Park Art Center, "A Study in Midwestern Appropriation" (through Jan. 12), throws its title around quite liberally.