The Diaspora

And so the diaspora continues. I'm up here in Minneapolis, got here in time to prepare a large batch of spicy pork for Tim's birthday party, but so many are either already gone or leaving. I'll be hopping a plane Monday and heading out west to see what all the fuss is about.

Whenever I'm up here I think about that fishing trip we went on when I was a kid, me and my brothers and my dad and my grandfather. Where we first discovered David Letterman through his midday show "from the top of the sears tower" or something. We had to, apparently unexpectedly, drop our grandfather off at the airport so he could go somewhere in a hurry.

Soon Motorcoat will be heading out to Portland, Vickerman to Los Angeles. Strand is apparently off to Seattle. It's like this country's spinning and things are getting flung to the coasts. It's tough. If I weren't a Chicagoan where would I go? I'd imagine New York for the pastrami sandwiches, but I'm going to eat my way around San Francisco and see what they have there for the ol' tummy. I'm figuring I'll start on the wharf with something light - some kind of deep fried fish, then head to Ghirardeli's for a sundae, then follow my nose to a bakery, then have a nice coffee and let things digest. What sandwich delights await me? I know not. It is an adventure after all.

Kurt Vonnegut* died. We were both born in the same city, Indianapolis, making us part of the same granfalloon, and both had brewers in our direct family ancestry, another granfalloon. Of course, he's a famous writer and I haven't done much of anything other than keep myself amused - at times by reading his books.