Close your eyes. It is 1999. You are in a coffee shop. A record store. A guitar shop. You have on a flannel shirt. Levi’s. You are contemplating dying your hair fuschia. You have just taken a gig as an extra on High Fidelity. It is the culmination of everything. It is perfect. You don’t even have to shave. You imagine yourself having a couple Rolling Rocks with John Cusack. Maybe even Joan. Now, open your eyes. You are Chris Jackson. You are a designer, a father. Same shirt. Same jeans. But the Cusacks are just a memory.