My kind of town

Now that my parents have left my native climes (and the family home) in upstate New York, and it is thus unlikely that I’ll ever return, Chicago feels like the next-best-thing in terms of something approaching a sense of roots and home in America. I flew in last night for my grandfather’s 90th birthday party (on which more later), reading The Adventures of Augie March, which was loaned by a more well-read friend than I who recommended it to get me in a properly Chicago mood. As a result when I stepped off the plane, I was feeling quite a lot of love for America.

I arranged my trip to arrive a day early so that I could catch up with old-dear-friend Ross who is doing his PhD in politics at Northwestern. And living above a sex shop. He is not, I might add to protect his dignity, particularly involved in the sex shop, but it’s pretty hilarious:

One can imagine how a customer might be distracted by the appeal of unbeatable prices to wantonly park at the doughnut shop, so it’s very thoughtful of them to encourage parking vigilance, twice.

Today I am making him go with me to the diner which featured in an episode of This American Life, because I am just that lame and also because I really want a ridiculous amount of pancakes, possibly with a side of cheesecake and a sense of closeness with Ira Glass.

But we are also going to the Edward Hopper exhibition at the Art Institute, for the sake of a little cultural redemption.