CULINARY TOURIST
Friday night opened with skirt steak and Tecate tallboys and closed gradually with live country/western and pitcher upon pitcher of cheap beer. The conclusion is still a mystery, as a spinning blur emerged from the black tabletop and expanded until it consumed us all.

Historians are bound to speculate.

Saturday opened earlier than expected, eyelids rose under protest as an angry white cat established rule of our roost. Coffee was made and consumed as intermittent showers pelted the area and cumulous clouds crept eastward, the tops of their massive white nodules shimmering in the sunlight, blue crevices darkening, deepening within.

By afternoon the threat of more rain abated. But we wanted more, and so walked to a patio for a burger and cold beer. The morning's precipitation had cooled the air and warmed my spirits. The Pride & Joy found my belly and there was much rejoicing.

By nightfall, I had developed an unshakable urge for something different. Andersonville's Midsommerfest was not going to cut it, so we marshaled our forces and headed to Broadway & Argyle for a taste of Little Vietnam.

Pho had eluded me for all my puff, but now I finally had it in my clutches. I slurped up broth and noodles and sprouts with a vengeance, my eyes, nose, mouth watering in spicy satisfaction. Meanwhile, Dave G had the variety stew with extra cow penis. Because he is gay for cows.

We all drank fresh, fruity bubble tea and headed home, turned in at a reasonable hour.

On Sunday morning, I collected and disposed of settled dust and dander. I scrubbed the apartment floors to their former sheen.

At noonish, Lauren and I needed another taste of Vietnamese cuisine, so we headed to Nhu Lan and procured sugar cane drinks and pork sandwiches.

I would like to do this again. And again.

BUT THINGS GO ON, REGARDLESS
This time there's a real, heavy heat coming up on wind from the southwest, enveloping the platform. The platform is more crowded than usual, and such forced proximity in the hot, humid air can lead to ugly incidents (yesterday, on the front end of the current wave, a youngster got a stern talking to by an older man about saying "excuse me").

A purple clatters by. Then the red around the bend. I get on. We all do.

We're stalled in limbo after Addison, static between brick buildings as the conductor waits for signals. They apologize for the delay. Transfer to purple and brown line trains at Belmont, if that's you're thing. It's not mine. Not today.

Things are getting heated. The car has reached maximum capacity and voices are raised. Cooler heads prevail. Fortunately, the air is lightly conditioned. For our pleasure. Fullerton transpires without incident. The people on the platform don't even try to embark. The girl out there in the white dress, her hair is windblown, tangled 'round earbud wire. She moves her shoulder in strange ways to reconcile the situation.

We roll on before the conclusion. Anything could have happened.

The red rolls on down an incline, into a dark subway tunnel and the windows turn to mirrors. We are looking at each other. At ourselves. Look at us. This is North and Clybourn.

Chicago. More stuffed in. The doors can't close. The mechanisms rattle on tilt. The conductor says "All in, folks. Act like you want to go to work."

I can't believe I'm the only one who smiles.

EVIL IS ON THE RUN
Yesterday, I saw a man in a Superman costume walking east down Irving Park Road at 7:45 a.m.