huck

I had never been to Chicago before last weekend.  Upon arriving, Katherine–my host–made sure that I was immediately inundated with the iconic city, taking me on a twilight tour that included a strange and uplifting fountain in Millennium Park, the gothic majesty of the Chicago Tribune building, and hilarious boat names we spied/invented whilst hitting a flask on the marina (favorites: “That’s What She Said” and “Wet Dreams”).

I enjoyed what might have been the best soup (shrimp dumpling) of my life at Chi City in Chinatown after having spent the weekend eating vegan fare at Katherine’s favorite establishments.  Which is not to say that I didn’t enjoy those thoroughly as well; a vegan Buffalo “Chicken” Wrap was especially delightful.

In case anyone was wondering: I found the creepiest puppet in America, sitting in the window of a strange Wicker Park boutique.  Stare deeply into his dead eyes.

Spent a few wonderful days with one of the greatest women in America, nay, the world: my grandma. With my Grandpa Joe passing away in 1986, she’s made sure to stay active and awesome, retiring from her job at the local bank only a few years ago after three decades, funding projects for people with special needs, visiting nursing homes to show love and attention to those with no one else, presiding over various comissions to help the disadvantaged, and bowling in a league with her girlfriends. There’s more, but I couldn’t keep track of it all. Needless to say, I’m so proud of the woman I could explode.

I arrived just in time to get an early morning tour Ste. Genevieve Industries, a non-profit where my Aunt Annette works along with approximately 70 other adults with special needs. Employees–with varying degrees of disability–are assigned fundamental tasks to perform such as operating machines that bag ice, constructing wooden shipping pallets, or assembling electronic components, receiving a paycheck for their labor just like a regular workplace. It was a life-affirming experience, seeing the fulfilled faces of Annette and her coworkers, their obvious pride in knowing that they are asset to their community, instead of a liability.

Otherwise, we spent the days eating chicken noodle soup and ham sandwiches, gabbing about this and that, catching up and chillaxing, Missouri-style. The weather was clear and breezy, a welcome change from the previous week. The morning that I left, we grabbed breakfast at the Kozy Kitchen, a small café in the little town my grandma calls home, and I asked the waitress to snap a few pictures.

Now that I’m in a better mind, I can retell the story of a tired, forlorn traveler, taken in by a lovely couple and their equally lovely house, and shown hospitality undeserved. That man was me, and that couple was Heather (Frye-Kelley) and her husband John, good friends who recently relocated to Fayetteville so John can get his MFA.  The overcast night had turned my drive in through the Ozarks into an endless tunnel, nullifying my peripheral vision and fraying my nerves.  As this caused me to arrive later than planned, they stayed up later than was probably conducive to the busy weekday ahead to catch up and entertain, making sure I always had a cold PBR in my hand, and recommending off some great music/bookage.

Unfortunately, in the woozy grayness of the morning, I only snapped three–waaaaay-too-blurry-to-post–pictures before I decamped to the previously-posted-about coffee house (I’m a little rusty on my DSLR).  I give you a picture of my friends in front of their adorable abode, hot off of John’s blog, which I have now linked to in the sidebar.

Special thanks to Dexter and Nico Frye-Kelley, for waking me up on time.

After an exhausting high school reunion weekend, I’m ready to cover some ground and put some distance between myself and Texas. Which is not to say that I didn’t have a wonderful time catching up with friends (who looked surprisingly well-put-together after a decade), dancing poorly, and nursing obscenely large–and obscenely expensive–cans of beer. I’m simply exhausted from the unforeseen emotional taxation of departure, batting away the ridiculous and understandable inclination to find an excuse to turn back. Also, it’s been raining everywhere I go non-stop since last Monday. The guy with the gray cloud that follows him around, hovering just above his head, reminding others that he’s upset? That’s me. The grumpy Care Bear with the cloud on his tummy.

My internal discourse is a raucous parliament of conflicting viewpoints; the aisles crowded with speakers scrambling to the podium to further debate the wisdom behind this project, whether castigating or congratulating me for ramming this personal legislation through committee and bringing to the floor. I’m well aware that hitting the road and writing a book is nothing new under the American sun, but I maintain to myself that I have something to add to this long-trodden tradition: a soupçon of recklessness, an earthy, gregarious humor, and–most importantly–the perspective of a human being in the 00s, completely confounded by it all, ready to purposefully lose themselves in order to find themselves–and everybody else. I think we can all agree that every few years, someone needs to self-nominate and hit the asphalt to take the collective temperature for the rest of us. I’d like to be that person this time around. I apply for this position ready to take on all of the responsibilities therein, exhilarated and terrified in equal parts, suffused with the purgatorial hope of our age.

P.S. What constitutes an overpriced coffee shop? How about $4.25 for a small glass of orange juice or $7.95 for a single egg between two slices of bread?

Did I stumble into a Rangers game? An airport terminal?

P.S.S. Pictures and cheer tomorrow. Promise.