and so, the circus . . .

Music: Duran Duran: Red Carpet Massacre

It's colder in Chicago, a welcome chill. No screaming babies, no snakes, just a few friends on the plane. Wore my cowboy hat; man from India tried to crush my hat with his suitcase, hasty thrust in overhead bin: "You can have my girlfriend, just don't crush my hat," says my tall colleague in jest. Watched Battlestar Gallatica on the notebook (they seek the tomb of Athena or some such thing). Cram in a shuttle to sit in a traffic jam (don't forget to owe Katie and Dana for the ticket, the tip, . . . the love). Hotel Essex: oh no, oh no. This place is a dump. Or it was. Not any more. They refurbished. Fear of scabies abated. Must have music. Radio: play. Hang clothes. I'm here earlier than I expected. Get registration out of the way. Cross street to Hilton. Pre-registration: "You need your name tag." "I left it in my room; do you have a roster?" "I'm afraid not." Sheesh. Back through lobby. Pass some guy I had a good time with two conferences ago, forget his name. Pass chair of small liberal arts school who I interviewed with five years ago. She doesn't recognize me (good). Up to room for name tag. Back to Hilton, get conference program, friendly faces whose names I should know (I'm reminded of a McDonald's commercial that I despise in which two men who work at the same place lie to avoid each other; are people really that secretly cynical?). Should sweep through bar on way back to see if anyone is here yet. No sooner than I walk into the door, "Josh! Josh!" It's a friend and respected mentor, at a table with a host of mentors (one generation older, now they are the "guard"---which is weird to think about---but thankfully true). Loving hug, chit chat. I try to sell "Repetition, Yet Again" t-shirts. No one is impressed with t-shirts. "Hey, you gonna blog the conference?" friend/mentor asks. "Depends if I can find free wifi," I says. Red head spitfire mentor/colleague in the corner still mad at me, taking long drags off of cigarette and laser-eyebeam surly looks. How long will she hold a grudge? It's not about her. She still loves me, just mad; must ignore laser-eyebeams. Lots of smoke, asthma trigger. Ugh oh. Should leave to puff asthma medicine. Spy dear friend; go over to hug and kiss. Yay, more love! (conferences are for love, not ideas). Still wheezing. Should leave smoky bar. Back to room, open lungs on the way. Up up up. Play radio. The new Duran Duran is good, a touch of Justin Timberlake but still enough of that Roxy Music continental cheese. Ice machine. Spot of bourbon. What-ho? Free wifi. Should I go back, be social? Over stimulated. Blog post.