feeling hot, hot, hot

Hello from Arizona!  I’m in Scottsdale this week, training on one of the aspects of my new job.  

It is HOT out here!   The breaking-record-heat-warning-air-conditioning-cranked-and-I’m-still-sweltering type of hot.  I’ve never been to Arizona, so I’ve never experienced this desert dry roast firsthand.  Now that I have, I think I’ll take my next trip in, oh, January or something. 

I’m fascinated by the pseudo-Southwest architectural style they have going on in greater Scottsdale as well.  I say ‘pseudo’ because it reminds me a lot of “Old Town” Carmel, very manufactured and contrived.  It makes for a great theme, but there are some that are completely over the top.  It probably doesn’t help that I’m smack dab in the tourist district – apparently everyone that visits is required to buy a piece of turquoise jewelry and a smoothie.  Just sayin’. 

The highlight of my trip so far was a trip to Papago Brewing, just up the road from our hotel.  I thought I was going to strike out as far as hitting a brewery on this trip, but the front desk clerk highly recommended this place.  The beer selection was top notch; the service, not so much.  I tried a New Belgium Mothership Wit (kind of a cross between a Leinie Sunset Wheat and the Brugge Wit) and a Papago Hop Dog (pretty similar to the Dogfish Head 60 Minute, although not quite as tasty).  I would have sampled more (they have huge coolers in the front where you can buy singles, and nearly thirty on tap) but I had to head to dinner. 

So, yeah.  I’m finishing up my stay here tonight, redeye-ing it back to Indy, and hopefully sleeping most of the day on Friday. 

Under the sweet, sweet air conditioning. 

A night in the seven hills.

 

Ah, Cincinnati. The ‘Nati. Cincy. Sinsinnasty.

I have such a love/hate relationship with you. You remind me of some of the best and worst times in my life… I loved living within your hilly confines, but I despised your racial tension, your screwed-up government, your impossible-to-navigate streets. I love your Graeters, your Skyline, your Christian Moerlein, and your First Watch; you can take back your goetta, your Big Red Smokies, your Hudepohl and your Camp Washington Chili. Queen City, you are bipolar, and I guess that’s why I keep coming back.

Stick a fork in me…

A Pitchfork, that is! This past weekend was the annual Pitchfork Music Festival, a two day event in Chicago’s Union Park showcasing some of the best in indie music snobbery—so of course I had to attend. 🙂

We were staying in Schaumburg, so we elected to take the Metra into downtown Chicago and then walk to the Green Line, which turned out to be a bit farther than any of us anticipated—and on top of the distance, it was HOT. Sweaty, humid, grimy and icky-sticky hot. I had anticipated the heat, but the humidity really knocked me for a loop (no pun intended) during that first afternoon. (Highlights after the cut.)

is Chicago.. is not Chicago

Every time I go to Chicago, I remember why I miss living in a big city. There’s just something…. vibrant… about stepping out of the Metra station into a whirlwind of activity. All of Chicago was probably at Grant Park, and who could blame them? It was the Taste of Chicago– all hungry hands on deck!

The five of us wandered from booth to booth, squandering tickets on such things as rum-battered tilapia (yum!), spicy vegetable and potato samosas (fantastic) and frozen chocolate dipped bananas, from which much juvenile joking ensued. Hooray for pictures of compromising oral positions!

After we stuffed ourselves silly, we wandered over to the Petrillo band shell, where we proceeded to fry in the sun like so many pale hot dogs on a concrete grill. I think at one point you could actually hear my skin sizzling—SO gross, and I even wore sunscreen! We watched Mike Doughty perform, and he was great as usual, doing a lot more improvising and “jamming” than he’s done before. He launched into a rockin’ version of Firetruck, which made me happy. Then came My Morning Jacket, with special guest Andrew Bird!

After the concert, we dragged our sun-flushed, sleepy selves onto the Metra and back to the Indiana side of the Region, finally getting back to Indy around 1:30 a.m. On the drive back down 65, we saw at least a dozen fireworks displays, popping in concert on both sides of the highway all the down the horizon. It was beautiful, sweet and fleeting, watching the wavering bursts of light as we sped down the dark ribbon of highway… a fitting end to a wonderful day.