A week from tomorrow, I'll be leaving for Chicago for 4 days. My dear, dear, dear friend Tuffet, who now lives in LA, will be coming back to Chi-town to celebrate her birthday, and I will be there. I don't care if I didn't get my requested days off and have to bribe and/or kill people at work to get my shifts covered, I will be going to Chicago, dammit. The last time I was down there for any decent length of time was Halloween of 2003, so I've earned a trip.
Thursday night: Cunneen's...the unofficial theatre department bar, at least on Thursday nights...I'm guessing we'll be making a pilgrimage there.
Saturday ngiht: The party. My friend Brett is throwing a birthday shindig for Tuffet. You know I've gotta go to that.
Sometime this week or early next: Haircut. I'm looking a bit Andy Kaufmann-ish, again. This must be remedied.
Oh, and as for the title of this entry, it's a line from a book by Bill Bryson, an author which I heartily recommend to anyone who likes tongue-in-cheek, hyperbole laden recounting of actual experiences. This one is from "Notes from a Small Island," a travelogue of sorts of the British Isles.
And speaking of nifty authors, Cory Doctorow, the guy who wrote the novel that I drew on for my (abortive) NaNoWriMo project, has a new short story out, which I highly recommend (the novel is a great read, too, especially if you're a Disney junkie that's interested in Kurzweil-inspired Sci-Fi, like me).
So now you've got stuff to read...don't say I never give you any good leads.