Chill-a-rama in the kill-a-rama

Thank God the heat has broken because desperation makes you do incredible things just to stay cool. Like last night, when it was still too hot out to head home but we were certain madness would set in were we to spend another hour at Espresso Royale. Thus, Chris and I hatched the plan -- neither, in retrospect, will claim responsibility for it -- to drive to Dundee and finally check out the outdoors/hunting/fishing spectacle that is Cabela's.

We had, of course, heard tell of this place at the beginning of the fellowship and were told tales of its cavernous interior, amazing selection of outdoors gear and whatnot. Yet somehow we didn't make it along on the trip some fellows made last fall.

But it was a good 20 minute drive in guaranteed air conditioning and we knew we could wander around and kill and hour or so in the cool. Arguably, we could have gone to a bonafide museum, but the University of Michigan Museum of Art is undergoing renovation and the Detroit Institute of Arts is simliarly closed.

One could even argue that Cabela's is a museum itself. Certainly a site to behold, starting with its giant log cabin-esque exterior and tasteful gigantic sculpture of two bears rasslin'. Toss in a parking lot full of good ol' American-made, gas-guzzlin' monster pickup trucks and you realize that you've struck upon a certain aspect of modern US culture that is, in a word, terrifying.

Part enormous Wal-Mart, part taxidermy museum and part serial killer training ground, Cabela's is a large enough place. The ceilings are about a zillion feet high and everywhere you turn, there's something in camouflage - tents, radios, shirts, fudge. The heads of dead animals are mounted on just about every available surface, complete with tags identifying them in case, I suppose, their families come looking. Display cases feature scenes of ducks and other foul who clearly weren't fast enough but are now to spend eternity posed mid-step by a fake puddle.

In the middle of the store is the piece-de-resistance, a tremendous mountain reaching up to the ceiling serving as a backdrop for all manner of dead animals. From goats to lions to bears to moose to foxes, dozens of beautiful creatures are positioned up and down said mountain, many posing on the cusp of attacking one another.

Around back of the mountain is an African safari scene, complete with lions digging into their supper, an elephant that looks considerably less friendly than Dumbo and more animals fiercely attacking one another. Why on earth would you bother taking your kids to a zoo or wildlife preserve, when you can get much closer to 'em all dead like this? Makes no sense. None whatsoever.

There's also a lot of stuff there, much of which I don't understand. More guns and ammunition (the mere sight of which makes my stomach flip) than I've ever imagined. Plus archery supplies for those who prefer a different approach to ending the lives of God's creatures. Upstairs, there's a restaurant that was (regrettably) closed, a shooting range game at which I proved pleasingly terrible, and such must-have items as meat grinders and sausage casings.

Topping it all off is a furniture section featuring not only the ugliest furniture I've ever seen -- picture uncomfortable couches upholstered with dreary outdoors motifs and tacky mountain scenery -- but uglier than I'd ever even imagined furniture could be.

For Chris, the fishing section brought back memories of his childhood, making lures and dreaming about what kind of boat he'd like one day. And a walk through the small aquarium hallway proved mildly educational for me as I tried to grasp the differences between a large-mouthed bass and, well, some other fishies. The lesson didn't exactly stick, clearly.

Yes, I was alternately appalled, confused and amused at Cabela's. And now I know for certain what I suspected all along: it's not the sort of place for people like me to ever, ever go.

But it was 91 degrees outside and the A/C in Cabela's was constant and generous. Thus, while the retail monstrosity brings outdoors people closer to their idea of nature -- gearing up to infiltrate the natural habitats of wildlife and kill 'em -- it at least helped me escape.

A few more shots from our time at Cabela's after the jump... Sadly, Chris did not see the giant beast bearing down on him until it was too late.

Death! Death! Death!

And...more death.

When lions dance.

I'm betting $50 on the monkeys.

Man, is camouflage effective. I almost didn't notice this killer hanging from the ceiling.

Yawn. More carnage.

No doubt bemoaning the complete loss of his dignity.

Dag, you are seriously outnumbered!

Haven't I seen this bear somewhere before...?

Like maybe at the Ann Arbor Art Fair?

I'm sure this foot-high prairie dog-teddy bear crossbreed posed a great threat to some brave hunter.

It seems rude to have shot these mooses when they were clearly in the middle of something.

Where's Lamont?

Is this what Neneh Cherry had in mind?*

Chris fondles a sausage stuffer.

Why on earth would you even need to see other fabrics for this couch?

*Side note: when we passed this buffalo display, a kid walked by, looked at the buffalo and said to his dad, "Wow, that looks just like our dog!" The dad nodded.

What the hell kind of dog do these people have?

Maybe the best $80 we've ever spent

At ten o'clock last night, we threw in the towel. We gave up. We had returned to our house after spending seven straight hours at Espresso Royale -- bless them for their liberal "hang out" policies -- to find the air thick with heat. It was still 91 degrees outside and maybe a few degrees cooler inside. I sat under the fan and suddenly understood what it would be like to live in a clothes dryer. Bless you, too, Priceline. A few minutes and 80 smackers later, we'd wisely booked ourselves two nights at the delightful Hampton Inn right by Briarwood Mall. While the "friendly service" promised by the plaque at the front desk was only fulfilled with a large stretch of the imagination, the room was equipped with two things we lack at our house: AC and CABLE TV!!!

What a glorious evening it was. We watched The Daily Show and The Colbert Report! We each claimed one of the double beds, turned the AC up to max and crawled under the covers.

And then we slept. The cool, unruffled sleep of those enjoying a brief respite from the heat.

Today fares not much better. I spoke with Charles Eisendrath this morning, Director of the Knight-Wallace Fellows and native of St. Louis. He's summering at his farm up North right now, although the heat isn't any better there. (They do have a lake, however, to cool off in.)

He said he reminds himself this time each year that he grew up with this heat but, that said, the heat seems far more oppressive in Ann Arbor than it ever did in St. Louis. Not because it's hotter. It isn't. But because it seems so unreasonable that it be hot here. It seems uncontrary to the very nature of Michigan and, therefore, somehow crueler.

And to that, Mr. Eisendrath, I say simply, "Word."

Heat Advisory

How is it possible we're under a heat advisory? This is Michigan! The whole reason I even moved here was to get away from the muggy heat of St. Louis -- and now look! Fortunately, I have been holed up for the past couple of hours in a cushy chair at Espresso Royale using up more than my fair share of their space/electricity/air conditioning. At 5:30 pm, it's 90 degrees outside, with a heat index of about ten degrees higher. Blech.*

(*No, I don't want to hear it from you St. Louis folk. You should expect to boil about this time of year.)

Yesterday was warm until a mid-afternoon downpour cooled things off considerably. By 8:30 pm it was quite lovely out and Chris and I took the two-mile jaunt to Zingerman's and back -- any health benefits of which were completely undermined by a shared dulce de leche/dark chocolate gelato and one hummingbird cupcake.

As we passed Main Street, we encountered a quiet group of protestors, lining both sides of the road for a block or two in each direction. Wearing orange t-shirts and holding lit candles, their signs indicated wishes for peace in Gaza and an end to violence in the Middle East.

A few weeks ago, we passed a similar pro-Israel demonstration outside the library. I'm not sure if it's the same group, though, as the library one involved a lot of signs, yelling and animated gesturing. There's something much more moving and compelling to me, something that strikes a nerve much deeper, in a peaceful protest. There's such power in silence sometimes. Or maybe I'm just getting old.

Intentional dislexia in re: primates

Every time I pass by the Money Source on South Main, for a split second I think it says Monkey Source. Then I get disproportionately excited until, inevitably, reality sets in. Every. Time.

My slutty toes & the wonders of nature

I have whore's toe nails. Just painted them bright cherry red, which does not fail to surprise and amuse me every time I happen to glance down. I was inspired, I think, at least in part by the giant mound of Michigan tart cherries I brought home from the farmers market yesterday. They are sublime.

In St. Louis, where Ted Drewes frozen custard is legend, my very favorite concrete has been, for years, tart cherry. The perfect blend of sour and sweet, fruity and creamy. How, then, is it possible that I have reached this stage in my adult life without ever tasting the real thing?

Perhaps some less sensous people may object to their slightly gushy texture, preferring the reliable firmness of your darker cherry variety. But the minute you pop a tart cherry in your mouth and clamp down, the pit agreeably shoots out, generously volunteering to separate itself from the rest of the fruit so that you can easily discard it and enjoy the main feature. How's that for accommodating?

Plus, the glowy, almost translucent bright red is a fantastic thing to behold and the juice these gems produce won't irreversibly stain your clothing were one, say, prone to sloppiness during ingestion. And they're not all that tart, just pleasantly so.

Why, oh why, then are tart cherries so difficult to find, absent from grocery stores unless frozen or canned? Why would such a perfect fruit be relegated to pie-making status where its remarkable characteristics are hidden under piles of added sugar and forced to compete with the allure of a flaky crust?

It all seems so...cruel and unnecessary.

If it sounds like these are the ramblings of a woman in love, I plead guilty! I am! I'm in love with you, tart cherries!

And also my stomach kind of hurts a little, which probably happens when you consume an entire pint of any fruit, no?

Rambling about relocating

There’s this one perfect little table upstairs at Zingerman’s Next Door , the café adjacent to the famous delicatessen. It’s in the insanely green room, right by the window, looking down on the picnic tables outside. It’s an ideal place for people watching, especially at lunchtime on a Saturday. Peering down, unnoticed, I keep seeing people I know. The problem is that they’re people I know from St. Louis. So it’s not really them. It’s their Ann Arbor doppelgangers, but each time I glance down, I forget that for a moment and feel again that warm sense of recognition before I understand, once again, that these are strangers.

We’ve been here two and a half weeks now, but it feels in many ways much longer than that. Which is a good thing. We feel like we belong, as much as anywhere in St. Louis, and maybe that’s precisely why I keep thinking I should be seeing people I know. Because we’re in that strange place where our comfort with the geography far outreaches our familiarity with the population.

All of this would feel stranger, I’m sure, did we not know just enough people here. We are not completely alone here. Fara is nearby and often in contact. The Butters are a car ride away in Ferndale. It’s highly likely that we could run into John Bacon or Charles Clover (the latter, at least, until the end of August) anytime we stop by Espresso Royale on State Street. And I’m making efforts to get out – lunching with Amy at 826 Michigan, planning workshops for the Fall, calling for Anusara yoga schedules, looking into knitting groups, flirting with the idea of taking sewing lessons. When we moved to Indianapolis in 2000, it was a completely different story. Chris had taken a job at the Indianapolis Star and I was flirting with ill health and serious mental burnout from a taxing marketing job, from which I escaped with just the barely recognizable remnants of my soul. Chris and I had not lived together before but our relationship had progressed so that neither of us remembers an actual conversation about moving together; it was just a given that if he went, I’d go along too.

At that time, Chris very generously encouraged me to go freelance. He was able to say out loud what I had been afraid to think: that my writing abilities were being squandered in the world of marketing, my energy wasted on the never-ending juggling act of account coordination. So I went freelance, which meant I was home, all day, alone in a new city.

It never quite felt like home. Living together was the easy part; the greatest gift of our relationship is that it has, largely speaking, never been a struggle to navigate. But I was not feeling well much of that year, my fibromyalgia kicking in at full force, my ego crushed by freelance rejections and my own fear of shooting high. And I had no friends.

I liked Indianapolis. More honestly, I liked our neighborhood. The Old Northside was within walking distance of downtown, a neighborhood of Victorian homes painstakingly renovated and painted cheerful alluring colors. I liked the idea of urban dwelling. It just never blossomed into much. I left the house for meetings and to go to the gym. I didn’t meet many people and the few I did just never seemed…right. And even though Chris and I had decided to marry and were planning our upcoming wedding, I wasn’t happy.

So it seemed fate intervened when the Indianapolis Star was bought by Gannett and Chris was lured back to the Post-Dispatch – almost exactly one year after our arrival. Everything wrapped up in a tidy package, we moved back to St. Louis and it was the right place to be.

At that time, Chris and I moved to get away from things. He wanted to try something new, to take on a job that would allow him to do the investigative reporting he loves best. The job there was a good one, but the specter of corporate newspaper ownership was not appealing. I was desperately trying to escape the world of marketing and, I realize now, a whole lot of fear. If I wasn’t going to work in marketing – which had been my fall-back position after my mother assured me no one actually made a living writing fiction – then what was I going to be when I grew up?

My point in this rambling stroll down memory lane is that this move to Ann Arbor is completely different. We weren’t looking to leave St. Louis, both of us comfortable in the city that had been home to us, both separately and together, for nearly 18 years. We had great friends, a good home, lots of connections and contacts and familiar places.

Yet when Chris got the fellowship and we moved to Ann Arbor last year, we experienced an amazing sense of comfort almost immediately upon arrival. It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it – and I certainly hadn’t before – but it felt like a giant exhale, like a math puzzle finally made simple. It made sense to us. So while we’d had no designs on leaving St. Louis or the incredible group of people who hold us up there, we wanted to find a way to make Ann Arbor our home. And that’s what we did.

There’s none of the lost feelings I had with Indianapolis, which probably had as much to do with the place I was in my life as the place I was in the country. Chris and I are at a different place in our relationship than we were then. We’ve now been friends for nine years, together for seven, married for five and are stunned that it just keeps getting better over time.

I’m still struggling to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I’ve now stopped writing business materials for clients, which is a big financial sacrifice but leaves my soul and my brain freer for meaningful writing. And I’m trying to discover just what that is. If I keep writing essays or columns, will there be a book one day? Or will I take the chance I’m dancing around right now and write the short stories I loved best from the beginning, the things I began writing at age 13? Will I ever be disciplined enough to be anything more than a “pretty good” writer? I’m not sure.

I do know that for someone who hates to move, who despises the chore of meeting new people and doing the hard work towards intimacy and friendship, I’m doing okay with this latest change. It’s an absolute thrill to see your partner finally get a chance to do what he loves and what he’s best at. And despite the boxes in the basement still stuffed full of miscellany, we’re pretty settled in our digs here, pretty much at peace.

I realize that I’ve downsized the pleasures in my life in recent years. This morning it was 86 degrees by 10 am, unusually warm for Ann Arbor. The house was starting to feel muggy and so we headed out for, of all things, the Farmer’s Market in Kerrytown. It’s a relatively small affair, but it was absolutely teeming with folk crowding the aisles to sample and pore over a bounty of goods. Piles of peaches ‘n cream corn, kernels peeking out from behind silky threads and drying green husks. Small mountains of ripe tomatoes, buckets of golden sunflowers, plastic crates of squash and zucchini in every shade of yellow and green. Green cardboard quarts of raspberries, blueberries and cherries so sweet and dark they look almost black. Small round plums I mistook for giant cherries. Plus herbs, plants, bouquets of fresh cut flowers. Locally made cheese, bread, honey and preserves. Amish men and women staying cool under their hats as they filled paper bags with green beans. Is there anything better than all that?

Then we escaped the heat by stepping into Zingerman’s where we enjoyed a pair of delectable Dirty Sheeds (toasting, as we always do, to Kim Porteous) and gazed out the window for a while. Then we moved to another room, squeezed out of the first by a giant and loud party, and plugged in our computers, sucking up the electricity, free wi-fi and air conditioning as we work on our various projects. Chris is hunkering down on his first major story, which will be on the site Monday and I’m, obviously, penning this rather cumbersome entry.

If I have a point here (and I’m not entirely convinced that I do), it’s that I’m happy. I like it here. I’m enjoying myself. That’s as good a point as any, right?

And...exhale!

It's a quiet day here in Ann Arbor. Which is fine, really, considering the whirlwind of activity we've had over the past few days. We kicked it off with a visit from former KWF-ers Rainey and Graham, which was oodles of fun. We even had our first soiree at our new digs on Sunday, with a mini-fellowship reunion. Charles Clover, John Bacon and the Butters gang joined us all on our fab deck for some noshing. (But where-oh-where was Thomas Kamilindi? No one knows...) Plus, we got to reunite with Gail Gibson and Rich Foley over the weekend, too. Good times! (Although -- and don't tell this year's incoming class of fellows -- it looks like re-entry into the 'real world' hits kinda hard post-fellowship.)

Then, on Monday, our great friends Kevin & Kathy O'Connor came into town with their girls Grace, 3, and Keira, 2. Poor Gracie wasn't feeling too well, but we had as much fun as we could, which involved lots of pizza and popsicles and napping and being silly. You know, our usual early week routine.

And as if all of that excitement wasn't enough, last week was also the infamous Ann Arbor Art Fair. Or Fairs, if you want to get all technical about it and, since people take this stuff seriously, you should. As Townies, we are under some sort of obligation to dread said art fair. Partly, I believe, for the role it plays in further diluting the definition of "art," but mostly because it means something like 1/2 a million folk tooling into our tiny little town and making it difficult to get to anything for several days.

As you can imagine, it took very little to get me in the role of grumpy, belabored local. Especially with the hot sun beating down and the crowds of post-menopausal women in flowy outfits. But Graham and Rainey insisted we had to check it out, if only for the sheer entertainment value -- and so we did.

I took my camera along with me to capture some fine shots of the wares for sale. Some people get very touchy when you take photos of their products. Relax, my friends, I can assure you that the reason I'm taking them is NOT because I hope to recreate whatever the hell it is later on. It's merely because words are woefully inadequate to describe to others what exactly you've done with that old teacup.

My favorite thing about art fairs is that there is a grand proliferation of crap on a stick. People will put the most amazing things at the end of a stick, call it yard art and women will flock from the suburbs and empty out their purses. I'm telling you, next year I'm setting up a booth with turds on a stick and I guarantee you someone'll think it's adorable. And it's probably your mom.

Here's the thing, people. If it's on a stick, it's not art. Plain and simple. Otherwise, people would be collecting Monets-on-a-stick. In fact, I'd go so far as to say there's a tenuous historical connection (if any) between fairs and real art. At fairs, a cow made out of butter could constitute art. (And, in all fairness, probably takes a lot more skill than painting a terrifying face on wood and attaching it to -- you got it -- a stick.) I'm having trouble imagining Leonardo setting up a booth next to a guy selling crushed velvet hats in order to demonstrate his fresco prowess.

Rainey said a friend of hers notes that if there's fried dough anywhere present, it's not art. The Ann Arbor Art Fair? Funnel cakes.

Now, to be fair, there were some really lovely things to look at. I was particularly fond of a four-foot-tall brass abstract sculpture of a hare. Really. But for some reason, my bastard of a husband wouldn't shell out the eight grand to take it home. Let's hope he's playing a trick and I'll get a nice surprise on my birthday.

It seems there is the original Ann Arbor Art Fair, a juried exhibition that is set up around North University. Then there are three other separate art fairs that take place in different parts of town at the same time. It's all within walking distance, so it's easy (tho' daunting) to get to all of it.

Oddly enough, the fair went from Wednesday to Saturday evening at 6, as it does any year. Seems to me you're missing a whole slew of potential stick-buyers on Sunday, but that's just how they roll.

Thus, Saturday evening, the hard-working artists spent hours dismantling their booths and it was amazing to watch. Some of them are very sophisticated digs, custom-made interlocking wood construction, fancy velvet-topped display platforms. I didn't actually see very much art change hands when I wandered around during the fair and after it was over, the sellers seemed to be packing up a lot of inventory. Despite my smart-ass comments, I do hope it was a success for those involved. I'd hate to have to come up with something new to make fun of next year.

So by Sunday, we had the town back again. The streets were back to their normal level of crowded. Restaurants had broken down their temporary additional outside seating sections. Only a few of the galleries still offered up things on a stick. (Although, while I haven't had it, I have to say that Kilwin's Rice Krispie treat on a stick, dipped in chocolate is the best stick usage I've seen in ages.)

Now it's Wednesday and I'm still searching for the cord for my digital camera so that I can upload my photos of art on a stick. Then you can experience all the joy of this annual event without having to leave the comfort of your own homes. Lucky, lucky you!

Also -- a quick shout-out to all my homies (yes, I said that) in da Lou. The city went through some major storms last week and last I heard not all my peeps had power again. Hope the weather's staying cooler for you!

Is Mark Cuban the new Ted Turner?

Sharesleuth.com continues directly or indirectly to attract media coverage. This New York magazine story ponders that question without, unfortunately, naming Chris as "the journalist" Cuban invested in for Sharesleuth.com. Ah, well... http://newyorkmetro.com/news/politics/powergrid/18481/index.html

Plus, an article from The Nation, which erroneously reports that Cuban "hired longtime business reporter, Christopher Carey, away from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, to run the site." Details, people, details!

http://www.thenation.com/blogs/edcut?pid=100695

And a Wall Street Journal piece from late last month includes Chris in an article about bloggers who have found financing for their sites:

http://online.wsj.com/public/article/SB115128242546190390-ETpCS1b9O4SKhNYVEPDZUdtlwqU_20060726.html?mod=tff_main_tff_top

A summer Sunday

It doesn't get dark until 9:30 here, which reminds me of childhood summer evenings in Scotland, where twilight stretched out well beyond our bedtimes. When night falls here, it takes with it all the day's heat, the temperature steadily shedding degrees until the sixties take hold. The whole house fan strikes up like the motor of a giant ship, sucking out the day's heat and coaxing a steady streem of cool air through the house. By the middle of the night, we'll have a lightweight comforter pulled over our shoulders to ward off the hint of delicious chill. It makes for deep sleep and makes every minute of the daytime temperatures worthwhile.

Chris and I both woke early this morning, well before seven, thanks to the cats, who were persistently pursuing their base needs for food and affection. I can relate. After a cup of morning coffee and a quick glance at the Sunday New York Times (courtesy of the previous tenant, I suspect, whose address change has not yet been updated), we headed out for a quick walk around the neighborhood to get the blood pumping before the sun was too hot. I adore these streets, peppered with cute bungalows and the occasional ramshackle property, yards landscaped like prairies, echinacea and black-eyed-Susans narrowing the sidewalk. Everything works together well, but there's no cookie-cutter predictability to the houses. A Cape Cod with peeling paint but a jaunty front yard sits next to a red brick house that could be South St. Louis next to a 1970s wood paneled cabin with wild grasses in the side yard.

I'm enjoying my first summer in Ann Arbor. We had dinner and coffee and lots of chatting with Fara Warner last night, which was a treat and made us feel like we were indeed somewhere we live and not just somewhere new. And today, we followed up our walk with some errands, which included picking up an end-of-season bargain outdoor tables and some cheapy chairs that will let us take advantage of the deck in the evenings.

Chris then made a couple of runs to the storage locker and we both frowned and laughed at the new pile of stuff we'd forgotten we had. I spent an hour or so on the deck, hiding in the shade and repotting some plants that survived the trip but desperately needed some TLC.

In the afternoon, we tried to escape the heat by packing up our things and heading to Espresso Royale. Unfortunately, it was quite warm in there, perhaps all the heat eminating from so many laptops. Still, we killed a few hours, Chris tending to business and me fiddling with the Sharelseuth.com blog design.

Now, it's just past ten and we're in our living room, enjoying the feeling of the temperature dropping around us. I have a bowl of dark red cherries and Chris is working on his own favorite, a pile of Rainier cherries. We're certainly not lacking for sweet summer fruit here. It's blueberry season and yesterday we brought home four pounds of Michigan beauties for just four bucks. It's time to eat up or learn how to make a pie.

96% Humidity, Dazing & Confusing?

What is this, St. Louis? No, because at 10:38 pm (9:38 St. Louis time) it's only 75% humidity. Here in A2, it's 96% humidity. Of course, it's a good 10 degrees warmer back on the Ol' Miss. If it sounds like I'm bitching like a child, it's because I am. Turns out whoever said that one does not need A/C in A2 didn't realize how incredibly well I tolerate the heat. Let's hope they're not lying when they smile through clenched teeth and promise me it'll pass soon. But not before it hits 94 in a few days.

Were I to stop complaining long enough, I'd probably note that all other aspects of being here are swell. We have the house in better shape than I'd hoped for 48-hours post move. Even the cats seem to have settled into a routine and it doesn't involve hiding under the beds. On some level, I'd feared that we'd arrive back here and I'd have built it all up in my mind, have exaggerated the strange sense of calm I felt being here -- and I'd discover that we'd made a terrible mistake.

But it doesn't feel like that at all. It feels like we're home.

In case we weren't sure, the universe has been giving us a few little signs. This afternoon, Amy Butters brought the Butter Beans into A2 (from their home back in Ferndale) for a birthday party. They stopped by the house afterwards to visit for a while and regale us with tales from the past two months.

Then we walked into town this evening, skirting past the crowds gathered for an antique car show on Main Street, and made our way to Zingerman's for a late bite to eat. It's about a mile walk, door to door, but with enough distractions to seem far less. (Except for the fact that it seems to be uphill both ways, which I thought was only true in tales my grandpa told about his walks to school.)

The humidity was dampening our clothes but there was just enough breeze to make it comfy and the air lacks the thickness of St. Louis in the summer time, the feeling that you're struggling to get a deep breath. After dinner, we were wandering back down Main Street when we happened upon Candy from the Knight-Wallace Fellowship.

We caught up with Candy and met her friend Betty when the Rwandan Cowboy came sauntering up, as if it was the most normal thing on earth that we all meet on the streets of downtown Ann Arbor. Yes, friends, Thomas Kamilindi is still in town -- wearing his leather cowboy hat from Argentina and the A-WOW t-shirt Bacon gave him for his birthday -- while he awaits the processing of his application for political asylum.

I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting a John U. Bacon sighting. We've been here 72 hours and I can't believe we haven't run into him yet. I don't think anyone's ever been in Ann Arbor for 48 hours without running into Bacon, whether they know him or not.

We're dining with Fara tomorrow evening and Graham and Rainey hit town next weekend for a family wedding. (Charles Clover is still in town too, but seeing as I haven't been hanging out in the law library, I don't stand much chance of running into him.)

It all feels a bit otherworldly, continuing these Fellowship connections as though we've found the door at the back of the wardrobe, through which we can continue that glorious year. It didn't seem impossible that we would glance inside the wine bar and see Vindu and Kimba arguing the finer points of a particular bottle while Gerard quietly bashes his head against the wooden bar.

Or that a block further would take us past Rush Street, where we'd run into Gail and Foley heading in to visit their favorite barkeeps. Or that we'd spot Tony in his Rerun hat jovially making his way down Main Street, Dru and Sally cutting a path through the crowd on their bikes, Min-Ah turning a corner with a giant smile on her face.

Are we just being Wooderson from Dazed & Confused, hanging out at the high school after graduation, trying to hold on to best days long gone by? I don't think so. There's enough changed and enough future in front of us for me to know that coming here isn't about clinging to the past. It's just nice to be able to have some familiar faces along with you for the present, you know?

In the midst of relocating...

...Chris is slogging away on his first major feature for Sharesleuth.com. Here's a recent interview he did with blog Idea Grove. (You have to scroll down the page a bit to find it. There doesn't seem to be a way to link directly to that particular post.)

Overheard in Ann Arbor

"Archetypes...archetypes need to be acknowledged and honored."- some blond guy, Siam Thai restaurant

Life in a college town has its drawbacks, too, y'know.

Seriously, people. What's with the heat?

I've done all this bragging about how cool it is here. And I've hauled all my belongings Northward. And yet it's a toasty 82 degrees here in Ann Arbor today. On Monday, we're scheduled for a high of 91.

What gives?

Yes, yes, it's still a good nine degrees cooler here today than St. Louis. And, yes, the saving grace is that by nightfall it will slip into the 60s and our giant whole house fan will cause our new digs to take a deep, cool breath.

But really. It doesn't do wonders for my organizing and unpacking energy.

Sometimes all it takes

...is the tiniest sign. Maybe it's a silent deal you make, pleading with the universe to find that one elusive CD. Bargaining your luck against retail reality and the forces that be when - there it is. Right in front of you, and suddenly what you need to do is perfectly clear. Or maybe you're at the grocery store, dizzy from days of waiting and wondering and packing and organizing. Too restless to just be here, to let all the anticipation ebb. Then, there it is, the song piped in from the Muzak Gods: life in a northern town.

And that's all the sign you need to know what you've already known for ages, somewhere deep enough inside you that you'd almost forgotten: that this is where you belong, right now.

Take it easy on yourself.

The Big Day has arrived

It's unlike me to be up even a moment before I have to, especially on a grey and rainy morning designed for sleeping late. But it's moving day and the anticipation has been building for months now and I'm so ready to begin the next phase of our adventure in Ann Arbor. Granted, it's tough to leave St. Louis. This little two-month layover has been one big reminder of how many great friends and fantastic people we know here. That's pretty tough to break away from. But the moving van is packed to the gills and there's no turning back now.

Not that I'd want to. It's tough to explain to all the great folk we're leaving behind, but it's their support and friendship that makes it possible to break away, to try something new and to know that you're going to be okay.

So...to the open road! Michigan, here we come.

Perhaps the best $15 I've ever spent

Among the piles of belongings we are discarding is a folder about eight inches thick, packed with credit card statements dating as far back as 1999. Because technology makes it possible for me to access most of this data (should I ever need a reminder of my overspending) electronically, I decided to get rid of most of the paperwork. But technology is a double-edged sword. It giveth and it screweth. Thus, I have a rich fear of identity thieves trolling landfills or recycling centers for access to my credit card information and, in turn, my meager credit balances.

To be extra cautious, we purchased a low-end paper shredder for about $15 at Target. It is, I must say, a magnificent machine. There is something I cannot quite explain, something unspeakably rewarding about watching it eat and destroy one's financial history. It's not just mental release, it's an immensely sensory satisfaction in feeding in a sheet of paper and watching the teeth shred it into strips.

Fantastic!

Of course, the downside of a low-end shredder is that its motor overheats quite easily and it automatically shuts itself down after I've stuffed a couple inches worth of history in its gob. It's torturous to have to unplug it and wait for it to return to room temperature before continuing.

Chris did point out that it probably wasn't designed for shredding large volumes of paper at one time. I suppose that those with giant quantities of paper to shred quickly probably have the financial incentive (and enough at stake) to invest in a more sophisticated model.

But my little machine, my new best friend, has been cooling overnight. So I'm off to introduce it to a little stack I like to call "Discover Card, 1999."

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Moving is not fun

I should know. In my relatively short time on earth, I have lived in Glasgow, Boston/Newton, Glasgow (again), Louisville, St. Louis, London (if you count one semester during college), St. Louis (again), Asheville, St. Louis (yup...again), Indianapolis, St. Louis (seriously, people...) and our little stint in Ann Arbor last fall. And, of course, I have lived in numerous residences here in St. Louis, so if you add it all up I have packed and lugged my belongings around a fair piece. And I still hate it.

Even though we are making a concerted effort to cut down on the amount of crap we own and, therefore are required to take to Michigan with us, it still leaves a BUNCH. And while I'm trying to work my way judiciously through the detritus of my past, it's hard not to get blind-sided by memories at each and every turn.

Tonight, I came across a box Chris had dragged up from the basement containing the last of my tape collection. Tapes! Those wonderful little gadgets, tracks rolling between two wheels inside the plastic shell. Talk about a trip down memory lane. With acquisitions dating from high school through college and, maybe, just a little beyond, it's fascinating to revisit who you were and who you still are through music.

I pulled out my De La Soul tape (Three Feet High and Rising) and listened to the first few numbers, memories flooding back. A mix tape yielded a little Smiths, some Sugarcubes, the Pixies and 10,000 Maniacs. The Darling Buds and Yo La Tengo wouldn't even play, the tape itself refusing to roll along the tracks.

Paul Westerberg. The Connell's Boylan Heights inside a cracked shelf. A handful of REM, 24-7 Spyz (really?), Poi Dog Pondering, Mary's Danish, Roxy Music, The Sundays, Peter Gabriel, Fine Young Cannibals, Echo & the Bunnymen. And buried in an unmarked tape case, stuffed in the back of the box - Carly Simon's Greatest Hits.

There! I've said it!

I'm not proud. But there it is, a huge chunk of my past, told in soundtrack form, a pile of plastic and tiny reels. All the music I loved, plus music I tried to love for a boy or a friend or a boyfriend. The guilty pleasures, the mix tapes with whole sections in the middle taped over.

What a trip, man. What a trip.

I'd like to say I was brave and pared down the collection, knowing full well that the music I love from that era I now possess on CD or in mp3 format. I did, in fact, toss the ones that wouldn't play anymore and the ones I just didn't care for much in the first place.

But the rest of them? They went right back in the box. Which went right back in the living room, back to where I discovered it earlier tonight. There's a chance I'll take a look at them in fresher light and decide to let them take their place on that landfill out there with my name on it.

There's also a chance that I'll discreetly tape up the box, stick it inside another and move it with me again, its contents practically intact.

At this point, I'd say the odds are about even.