a bookstore man meets the CIA
My mission today was to make it to Bloomington-Normal, Illinois, to deliver a lecture (of sorts) on personal blogging and to read hopefully-funny excerpts from this here blog-thing. Ah the romance of train travel. Or not.
After a weirdly restless night my 5:30 am taxi arrived, and I struggled to avoid peeing my pants in terror at the driver’s skills and attitude toward safety, which were reflective of a man who firmly believes in the afterlife. It was definitely Mr. Khan’s Wild Ride.
Union Station is somewhere south of “Soviet-Era” on the Inspiring Architecture Scale, and its interior seems to be mostly made of plastic. Four people in the waiting area were relatively normal (I am generously including myself in their number), two were shapeless sleeping bundles of stained clothing, one was loudly talking on a cell phone about which of his acquaintances were in jail and for what, and one family was having a conversation about the death of Whitney Houston. I eavesdropped on this for a while and learned of their belief that she was murdered in some kind of conspiracy to kill black entertainers (Michael Jackson was cited as corroborating evidence). Elvis, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin: those were all just sad people with drug problems, but Whitney Houston was clearly in fine shape right up until the point Evil Whitey slipped her the fatal dose. Gotcha.
The train itself was an improvement over all that led up to it, and I enjoyed my huge cushy “business-class” seat and looking out the window at all the excellent trackside spots in which to dump a body. That is just about all I can think of whenever I am on a train. Don’t know what that says about me.
TIME OUT FOR SOME STAR WARS CUISINE
Nora was reading an issue of Food & Wine at the kitchen table while I cooked, mostly out loud (arrggggh), and I heard her mispronounce the word “Tuscan.” She said it with a long u, like toucan or super or foolish. (Super Foolish Toucan! One night only!)
Me: It’s “Tuscan.”
Nora: Tuscan? No. This is a recipe.
Me: Yeah, sure. Tuscany is a region in Italy.
Nora: Tuscan KNEE?
Me: Yeah.
Nora [kind of muttering to herself]: Tusken raiders.
Me: It’s a region in Italy.
Nora [quietly]: It’s a region in TATTOOINE.
NOW WHERE WERE WE
I made it in one piece to Bloomington-Normal, and am currently parked at a coffeeshop taking advantage of their hospitality and free wireless. Shouldn’t Main Street also have adorable little diner/cafes where Wesleyan students can take their moms to breakfast? I have not noticed any. I could forgo nutrition in favor of getting completely wrecked on caffeine and delivering a blog performance of messed-up-rockstar proportions, but that might not be the best idea. I will write up a report of my downstate frolic regardless, unless it is such a disaster that you hear about it on CNN first.
—mimi smartypants is going to be the next Canadian Dracula.