Mar 12: Chicago, Day Off

IMG_2471We began the morning as foretold in the previous entry, in a static holding pattern at an outdoor mall, somewhere. The place reminded me of Antrim’s Junction One (colloquially known as Junkshop One) with its covered conduits and next-to-zero shopulation. Alas, despite a megawealth of choice in shoes and clothing, nothing floated my boat, but at a time it came close. I’m on the lookout for a duplicate pair of trousers perfect to my needs which I found in the recent past at a major retailer whose name rhymes with plap. Woe, it must have been a popular trouser, such that the particular cut I prefer is not available in any location I visit. Thus I left this morning’s cold, emotionless place of monetary worship empty-headed. I mean handed.

We arrived in Chicago around 1pm and I don’t know about any of the others but MY room was ready (screw those guys) and I scarpered into it, to once again stare at the internet.

From then until around 5.30 I looked at my novel stuff and worked on it, happy now to be back on that saddle. The last time I visited the work was shortly before my uncle and stepdad died within two weeks of each other; it was a bit of a barrier simply opening the file, but hey, fiction goes on, right?

I’m afraid I have little to report other than a spectacular veggie jalfrezi at Indian Gardens on East Ontario Street. The service was actually a little quick for my taste, but then I am ‘the lonely guy’ so they probably want me out of that place; I keep bothering couples, asking them how their food is, what they’re drinking and how often they make love. Two dudes in pinstripe suits weren’t amused, even after I defensively replied,’What’s the problem? It’s just natural!’

Anyway, a curious crystalline factita grows under the dull dust of days bygone — I left home on the 21st of February, and we’ve only done three shows. The past six days haven’t seen any real UHTC action unless you consider the mining operation required to extricate 5 pallets of shirts and programmes. So I imagine the next entry to cover the Chicago gig will be chocked with news and rumours so thick and chunky, you’re gonna puke. No, it’ll be back to business with a plap, I bet ya.

My room looks out on the planet Venus

My room looks out on the planet Venus


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I hate blogs and bloggers.
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