2002-10-11 - 6:47 p.m.

Landing at Chicago O�Hare I�m about 36 hours late and so I�m running through the world�s biggest terminal and bursting through the closing train doors like the alien from John Hurt�s stomach in, um Alien, except with more in the way of flailing luggage and I�m gunning Sierra Nevada on the way into the city because the Bloody Mary�s are wearing off like so many over-diluted cocktails and I�m cabbing over to the karaoke bar and I�m meeting Surly (and Midge) in a breathless tizzy and I�m gunning PBR (?) and I�m signing up to sing, well, let�s just call it an English band and everyone else manages to be the consummate showperson and I�m just kind of timidly warbling and then we�re in a hip-hop club and I feel like the whitest person in the world, especially when I�m taking a piss and about five guys are having no problem with peering over my shoulder whilst I pray for something to happen and everything catches up we�re past the point of rhythm and we leave and I�ve had my first night in Chicago (and, annoyingly coincidentally, Janeane Garofalo�s first night in New Orleans�she definitely needs to be more organised if she�s going to start stalking me).

It was a diner-drinking-movie-walking kind of weekend, very lovely and just what I needed after the relentless excesses of New Orleans. Surly is never less than spectacularly good fun to be around and a splendid host(ess). Chicago is kind of knowingly hip and the black-rimmed-glasses quotient is off the scale, but it manages to cruise the back corner of interesting without too much pretentious noodling. That�s my snap judgement, anyway. I need to go back and stay for a week or two.

A great trip, though, all in all. Goodbye again, America.

In other news, every time I eat, my face seems to swell up to the size of Jennifer Lopez�s rear nethers. Pesky gland.