I doubt I will be in Chicago in 2016 as anything more than a passer-through -- I inherited Granddad's gypsy ways (perhaps Traveler is more accurate; that's the Irish side of the family) and nine years is longer than I've lived anywhere since adolescence. Besides that, I think the Olympics are tremendously wasteful and a sort of balm to the fact that the other 23 months of every olympic cycle nobody can seem to get along, internationally speaking.
Still, you can't help be a little bit proud when your city is chosen to represent the United States as a potential site for the 2016 Games. Even if, as coworker M seems to think, it's mostly because we're one of the few major cities that Americans, on the whole, don't utterly loathe. (I think personally it's probably more that we're one of the few cities with the space and resources to do the thing properly, but it doesn't do to talk generalised politics in a confined space).
Having paid my three-dollar fine for late renewal, I'm working my way through that biography of EA Robinson, which is oddly fast going considering how large it is. A lot of it is terrifically irrelevant to Robinson's own life, but it puts up an interesting sketch of the emergence of early 20th century poetry.
I was wrong; I don't have a day off until Thursday, but tomorrow I'm not working until five so aside from a post-office run to send Mama Tickey a by now very belated birthday gift, I'm going to stay home and cook -- crock-pot beef stew with dumplings and those rangoons I keep meaning to make. Thursday -- well, I'm seeing a show after working all day on Wednesday, so we'll see how I do when I wake up Thursday morning.
Posting from work, where apparently IE has gone haywire and freaks out if I try to respond to comments. Mea culpa; I'll be around this evening, I hope, if the Terrible Nap doesn't get me first...
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